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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.10.02, late thursday night

Sleepless with dread, as destruction might bloom, ghosty and without escape for the dreamer, above fat pillow, a lumpy mattress.

And today in Santa Clara? Chucking the notes scribbled hastily on a noisy slip of Lindt Orange Chocolate wrapper, I had urged thirty restless teenaged girls to go to Kinko's the next morning with the zines that they had typed, snipped and pasted late at night while everyone else was sleeping snug. Go, I breathed nervously into a tightly gripped microphone, There will always be an audience. Seek it.

And here I am, late at night, fearful of slumber, its own quicksand.




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