TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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04.01.03, tuesday morning
This morning I dreamt of a fierce young woman who, as she wandered a battlefield littered with the bodies of youth, breastfed the dying. Hair wild and eyes luminescent blue in an otherwise watery green landscape, she wore a dark dress with long voluminous skirts that, as they whipped about her legs with her quick and foxlike movements, suggested more emotion than her face, so stubbornly intent. Inspired, perhaps, by an Angela Carter heroine, a lady suddenly powered by an almost feral, violent, and blithely criminal impulse as she moves toward a destiny that could kill her, even as it affirms the energy that rages within her body.