TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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The other night, on my 38th birthday, I went for a long cycle along a moonless bay. The lights of trawlers twinkled as I peddled further and further along a bridge that linked a little island to the mainland, leaving behind the sulphurous lights of the city for a darkness prickled by bird cries. A heron stalked among the rocks, a shadowy thing that wavered like a trick on the eye. I was happy, knowing I belonged to this, somehow, this night, this now, this always. I will always belong to this, as long as I seek it.