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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


03.03.20

I have attended dozens of funerals in the last year or so, and the latest was today. Brief sunshine flickered through the chapel's glass-stained windows, casting blue and red scintillas on mourners, as musicians played a delicate, soft air. I witnessed a man caress the dead man's eyelids, one last act of tenderness that took my breath away. I remembered a photo I had seen of the dead man's house, a former hunting-lodge set by a lake. Taken ages ago, it had that dreamy look peculiar to photos from the 80s. Wisteria heaved over doorways, and white furniture was set on the lawn, as if awaiting a tea party, while a dryad, shipped from London's Leicester Square, reigned in the garden. The path to the gate was framed by flowers, like the edges of a medieval manuscript. It looked like paradise on earth, and what paradises he must have made for his friends with his company. May he rest in peace.





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