outwait outrun outwit





TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


11.24.10

Dad e-mailed me twice, regarding my whereabouts. I could squint at a map and point out exactly where I was, but the country I've started to call home isn't on any map. The morning begins in a bedroom on the top floor of Hades's house, as rook-cries ricochet from rooftop to rooftop. I hardly ever eat here; when I do, I'm given minotaur food: meat, freshly hewn and semi-raw. By afternoon, I'm driven through a dim netherworld of fog-draped villages and petrol stations, chocolate melting on my tongue. Nightfall: in a pub on the other side of that new-familiar country, one amidst a cosmopolitan crowd, I read tales of an imploded country's financial woes. Later, gin and tonic slip down my throat at The George as drag queens wail, Money, money, money, money makes the world go round...




<<

hosted by DiaryLand.com

free
web stats