TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Beyond my window is a ferris wheel, dark and still. White oil tanks gleam in the night. The facade of a commuter hotel glows neon, beside a waterfront development, where I felt my age, sipping gritty red wine amidst loud twentysomething postgrads at a party as a laptop emitted fuzzy, possibly rock songs. I remember the courtyard: not a green garden but carpark-like: concrete, desolate, anonymous.
Tomorrow, the screams of thrillseekers will churn and twist.