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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


10.07.02, monday afternoon

Whew. Saturday's opening was not so bad, after all, even tho' you had to sport ID due to the availability of likker-spiked punch within. Lotsa people, familiar and strange, the heat of their skin tickling past my bare arms, enough to inspire lust, if faintly. The boards were plenty and displayed regardless of artist status. Neat-o.

Outside the gallery, a kid sketched a pout-adorned countenance, pouncing like a tiger cub on circus display as his lips dribbled water. The eyelashes were accidental, tiny liquid branches stretching delicately on dark cement.






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