TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
See me chase the scarlet threads that trail the last three days quickly quickly, three days unraveling themselves into memory tipsy-tricky, corralled uncertainly by paper, ink, a photograph.
Is this light captured? or shadows, of past days mis/re/membering themselves under the weight of another dawn? Bone cracks and flesh crumbles and hair burns. Once-heavy eyelashes flutter hesitantly against a cheek's curve, a curve that has lost the softness of its skin, skin becoming only memory color-saturated, a preponderance--at once overwhelming and necessary--of essences essentially lost, now light that cracks and crumbles and burns when captured.