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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


11.26.13

Utter darkness. The kind that swallows bodies and spits them out as you cycle past. Houses shift shape, no longer sleepy lumpen forms replete with dawn. Now they hunker, with stiff black rooftops pulled close to the hard ground, flickering lights for eyes. In the winter dark dwell strange and sometimes friendly monsters; they smell of moulding leaves, burnt peat, and chowder.




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