TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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We walked the road by the old homestead, swallowing big lungfuls of air as we pressed upwards toward the spruce plantation line. At the top there is a trail, heathery and sheep dung-strewn, that leads to a few neolithic structures: a cashel, or ringfort, and court-tombs. Someone's home and haven, some bones' lying-in place. Time is passing so quickly and when I chance upon moments from my past, they seem as strange and ruined as these ancient, lichenous constructions.