TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Rushing to school and work under frothing trees, we grimace against a barrage of gusts, refusing to acquiesce to the tail of a hurricane, which shakes the leaves down, scattering them into the shops, like strange illegible receipts among the price-tagged fossils of last season's desire. Uniformed girls flee, their long tresses lashing the warm sea air as subdued schoolboys huddle over sambos and illicit cigarettes in stone archways. At our desks, we notice how the buildings rattle around us, like shells whose bodies are too small for them, and dash homeward, to bed, poetry, and hot port.