Right here in the middle cat's head part of Australia, right near the eye, we walked. And we walked. And we walked. And as we walked we dirtied our hands on the hides of smooth-barked apple gums and shy black sheoaks and we made our way to the meeting of the local of the NCDU. And for the first time in a long time it was OK that our hands were dirty.
Time, like confetti made shredding documents before the run toward composting, renders its space unto a void. There we wait to see if memory serves, or if memory falls apart inside the apathy of watching someone else’s story take centre stage.