TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
01.31.04, saturday afternoon
Every day when the sun begins to set, the chimneys of the pastry factory next door hiss, letting loose thick white plumes that dance hysterically in the gold-moted sky. Beyond lies the Port of the City I love so much: a horizon of white cranes, slow barges, the carapaces of trains glinting at the border of darkness.
Our loft doesn't smell so sweet anymore; maybe Jimmy and I have simply become accustomed to our neighbor, like people often do when they are around things (like rules and whistling men and scents and birds and prisons) all the time.