TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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After the full thunder moon, I returned to Galway. Home, or some semblance of it: a borrowed bed, surrounded by boxes and suitcases.
As an elderly black cat snored at my feet, I drew the Eight of Cups - the card of change and transition. Jet-lagged and ever-thirsty, I can think only of my headache. I think in ramen, cans of beer, and The Big Lebowski. Sticky-backed little yellow squares proliferate, here a future as I will let it come. "The Dude abides."