From Lygon st at around half past eight, I walk idly through the sleepiness of a warm spring eve, hands in the pockets of my unbuttoned jacket, and through my headphones The Middle East yearning in a lilting cadence of The Land of the Bloody Unknown.
The thin trees lining the sidewalk glow in a luminous halo, their fresh leaves lit bright green by amber streetlights rebounding off sandstone churches and grizzled asphalt. From the cosy warmth of a bakery window, a blackboard sign proclaims in multi-coloured chalk, WELCOME BACK, SPRING!
A euphoria fills me, sets my heart to tingling, and wondrous awe takes me over; I peer at the world like an infant, or a tourist, and giddily find evidence of the changing season everywhere, lying over the world like a thin sheet draped comfortably across a naked body on a tepid night.
I grin dreamily and unashamed, and slow my step to glance lovingly along streets that swathe the suburb in a cross-stitch, each seam pressed by solemn buildings all thin and packed up hard against one another.
They seem to me like totem poles laid out on their sides; each a face with eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar, as if sculpted thus while offering a prophecy that has long since been dutifully scooped from out that yawn by the ancient wind - like pollen from newly budded flowers, to be carried away on the currents and populate the world anew with secrets and hidden memory.
The thin trees lining the sidewalk glow in a luminous halo, their fresh leaves lit bright green by amber streetlights rebounding off sandstone churches and grizzled asphalt. From the cosy warmth of a bakery window, a blackboard sign proclaims in multi-coloured chalk, WELCOME BACK, SPRING!
I grin dreamily and unashamed, and slow my step to glance lovingly along streets that swathe the suburb in a cross-stitch, each seam pressed by solemn buildings all thin and packed up hard against one another.
They seem to me like totem poles laid out on their sides; each a face with eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar, as if sculpted thus while offering a prophecy that has long since been dutifully scooped from out that yawn by the ancient wind - like pollen from newly budded flowers, to be carried away on the currents and populate the world anew with secrets and hidden memory.