TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Thursday, 29 May 2008
Sometimes I think, I'm a river running dry. But then the sea comes to me, in small, essential measures. The sound of cool water flowing from a faucet, as I wash my sweat-grimed face. A song, rippling through every atom of my weary muscles. The estuary of a blue-bound book, where my consciousness mingles with so many others. The cry of a seabird, keening its solitary birdness.