Scrolling images

My world is not whole, my world is not real but a scatter of speckled shadows in the half-light.

The grey rain of the morning - the grey has become the norm. So has the incessant cold. Summer is running miles behind schedule. Whose schedule, one asks?

The train going the other way is heavily saturated with graffiti. Like a magnificent, chaotic artwork speeding past, looking unusually bright and cheerful, like the fanfare at a deserted fair, blasting aloud to no audience.

The light today is strange. The colours of the landscape seem unusually fresh despite the fluffy ashen clouds overhead. The red wall looks very red. The roofs of fleeting houses and cottages are well defined. Spot the ones dotted with moss.

I protect my precious book from the drizzle, holding it tight against my chest, taking care not to crease or scratch its fragile edges.

Everyone reads Harry Potter. The universe is Harry Potter mad.

A man has the job of pulling down entire posters off the billboards at the train station. Do you get stressed about a job like that? Or is the job a stress-relieving act?

The other day, I dragged myself and my conscience away from the office and trammed into the CBD to the bookstore to exchange a book I bought earlier on in the week. There was little time, but at Flinders Street Station, I stopped and signed a petition. One of the guys told me about a rally in front of the City Square. I wondered if he could tell just by looking at me that I wasn't going to turn up.

Mornings, afternoons and nights roll into a kind of continuity, scrolling past the front of our eyes. Monochrome TV with a broken aerial.

Evenings of overdue words, overdue thoughts. Attempts to recite Shakespeare in poor imitations of American accents, when all the well-known quotations and soliloquy have rusted out of memory.

A head full of uncried tears.

[Corresponding dandruff flake][Comment?]

11 December 2001, Tuesday, 10:49 PM

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Alter ego of dandruff

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