TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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This week I broke a double yolked egg into a white bowl, hung tea-wet receipts on a laundry rack, and started school.
I would rather eat or think about food than write about myself, but for whatever reason, I am still drawn to this act, to signing this contract between self and intent, past, present and future.
Watch the passively received world shatter and disintegrate, against the force of a gate-rammer built, paradoxically, with echoes, flashing insight, and memory. That didn't really happen, this wasn't true, and why did we believe that the world was constructed without our consent?