TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.12.06, sunday afternoon
All friendships fray. Only time lost, these reflections on the wreckage. The tears well, but Jimmy says, Move on. No time to toss a bucket into what is, after all, a useless matter. These tears, no sense to them, yet here they are, prodding these words to spill forth from my consciousness, useless puddles you canít even water grass with. Like my mother once said to me, Your words are too late.