TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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In my beloved's underworld, no one stirs before afternoon and the deepest level roars with the mercies of revellers from evening to early morning. Twilight comes all too soon, at a quarter to four, in a blue-grey coat, stained where the rain falls. Everything acquires a deep ambiguity in its shadow; objects and people are not what they seem. Tomorrow is the solstice, and with it, the salvation of longer days.