TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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In the canal along Gaol Rd, swans construct their nest in the remains of an old one, augmenting it with ephemeral things: twigs, moss, bulrush. My blood pulses—hope, or the body’s instinct toward survival. Today I have weird conflicting feelings: a sense of doom after the hottest February everywhere on record, as well as a spontaneous joy kindled by the song of spring sunshine.