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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations & other curiosities :: profile 11.05.01 No, no sleep for me. Instead, I watch. I slip from my room and travel door to door, listening as each occupant slumbers restless, her dreams salt-stained. Vague terror smells pungent, the aroma of clots of blood and tissue collecting black and gelatinous between young female thighs. Sometimes a sob slips away, discreetly, through the space between door and floor. Dreams� they have no master. Instead, they come, despite ourselves, musty and dimly lit, between memory and desire. In the broken-glass dreams of the terrified, home is always being burned, the bodies of strangers heavy. Do you think I want to dream about a place that doesn�t exist anymore? I�d rather watch. I was there when Leila escaped and I was there when the one hanged herself and I was there, too, when the two discovered each other. And when the dead one walked, I saw and said nothing.
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