TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
I walked to the woods for the first time in over a month, since I hurt my ankle again on the uneven pavements of Galway while hungover. The wood was flowerless and golden, a shining, shivering curtain of leaf and frond. Apparently my preferred form of therapy is the sound of leaves falling. I had only three cigarettes today, the last one after a dinner of liver and rasher and mushy peas, tiny steamed potatoes split with the fork, pools of gravy. I paced around the house, as the sky darkened into a velvety deep blue and a huge black dog dragged its leash up the street. It paused to look at me, and I at it, each of us in our near-absolute solitudes.