TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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06.03.04, thursday afternoon
Ah yes, now I remember why I don't go to bars anymore. We went to bid Tokyo-bound Milan goodbye last night and I was lucky to wake the next day with only these items: one hangover, two tender big toes, one broken necklace, one seatless bike, and a few choice full moon visions ghosting as memories. Potbellied Buddha backlit in a glossy Orientalia'd bar; a smashed bus window's spiderweb of fractured glass; vast asphalt deserts; an irate yet amazingly ineffectual tattoo-smothered crack addict; and the lights of the Bridge swimming in night as we hitchhiked across the bay at three o'clock am.