TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Walking around the city post-dawn, I fancy that I am the only one awake. Mist has come in, enshrouding houses and boats, drifting like wraiths along streets and waterways. The animal kingdom makes itself apparent, through sound: birdsong, calls, under-bridge coos. I recall that nature often appears as a character in faery tales. Birds materialise, here and there: a magpie, rooks, swans curled like little boats, gangs of sparrows or blue tits. One bold pied wagtail comes up to me and tilts its head as if to say, Why are you awake? Spiderwork gleam, trembling, on railings, their dew-dropped intricacies like stories, only if one could see them.