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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


08.29.17

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.

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In the concrete kingdom, the lus na tine, or the fire-flower, yields the last of the pollen to the wind. Eddy, catch the light, and fly away.




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