TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.17.06, thursday evening
Every moment since I read my father's e-mail has been one pensive intake after another, of breath, of memory, and in each is a sudden, complete, and brief awareness that an irreducible life is gone, irretrievable as a lit match that has fallen into an ocean. Is this what you call mourning?