TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Today I took a long walk along the prom after my first yoga session in two decades. Post sturm und drang of recent weeks, I have reached a state that I might happily mistake for inner peace. Conversations, long, tiring walks by river or bay, journal writing into the night, and Robert Macfarlane's The Wild Places helped. The old skin have withered and flaked away; underneath, the raw flesh toughens into some shiny, wondrous thing.