TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.01.02, tuesday afternoon
(For now endures the famine of intimacy I have toward people and objects and places. Is it ennui? Stress? A sudden misanthrophy, engendered by the distance to my own body and thus pleasure itself?
At least it is not as awful as it was years ago, when I was quite sad over something undoubtedly ridiculous, only to be reminded of how ridiculous I was being when a window came loose from its moorings during one windy midnight and fell on me, shattering into thousands of brilliant infinitesimal pieces. Emerging from his hole in the attic, Lars stood, blinking sleepily as I sat crowned and cloaked in glass, and asked, bemusedly and not unkindly, Vat are you doing here, Phil? Exactly.)