неделя, 9 декември 2007 г.


My fingers smell of tangerine.

Whenever I run my nails through the peel of a tangerine, I think of Led Zeppelin. "Tangerine, tangerine, living reflection of a dream..." Then the tips of my fingers turn orange and I become overwhelmed with the scent of the naked fruit. I can taste it in my mind.

There's a pile of tangerine peels on my desk - drying up in this heavy air of solitude and silence. They're dried with edges stiff, white on the inside and dull on the outside. There's no scent left in them. And all their smell is on my fingers.

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