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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


06.23.20

High winds shook loose a nest from the rookery above the star fort, a large, black, perfectly formed cup embedded in moss and sticks, a cryptic message on the gravel path. Later I recorded a prose piece for a regional radio show on the arts this week. It was nervewracking—I had to look up the pronunciation of words I had only read, never spoken, and I found sentences that could have used more editing. But it felt good too: every word I spoke set free a bird, releasing it into the ether where it belonged.




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