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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


09.18.02, wednesday noon

Unseen at the warehouse while I scritch-scratch, old skin flaking over magazine late, late evening: classical piano notes sneaking snakily through grassy thought, scattering the corpses of mice, which will be found in the morning by girl (ahem, I) screaming like a hair-in-curlers housewife mid-telephone call. If I was a smoker, I woulda gasped for a cigarette. Marlboros, anyone?




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