TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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We bike along the river, until the pavement stops and we can't cycle further. Across the water is the ruin of a house, furred in ivy. Time is funny, on a picnic, scarfed down in cut sandwiches, cream slices, and mugs of coffee poured from a tall flask. Time expands, like the ripples stirred by the flip of a fin or an oar. Time shivers, like a dog come ashore after joyfully flinging itself into the river. Too soon, the afternoon song is over; already shadows deepen and the rooftops begin to smoke.