TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Dusk, yesterday. Our car winds north far, far, above the Pacific Ocean, on a cliffside highway that twists and turns beneath hills bristling with pine, oak, fir, tanoak, redwood. The horizon is a vivid red ribbon, fading between songs on the radio, as blue waves become bluer, until black and blacker, until only memory and spectral presence, a scent of depthless brine on a faint wind.