TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.14.06, tuesday morning
These days we aren’t sure of what we’re seeing. Either winter is digging its heels or spring is reluctant to claw itself out. The way the great beech trees twisted on the hotel grounds made me think of that party scene in The Great Gatsby, only we had arrived the morning after.
From a window on the highest floor, a little platinum-blond girl observed us, as solemn as a grey March day.