No, no. It doesn’t seem like we’re really here after all. It doesn’t seem like anything at all. It seems like soft gentle rain through the sunbliss…it seems like wide warm hands of God and glistening sweat and sweetness. It feels like memories. It always feels like memories…these sublime Sydney mornings. It feels like here and there mixed up in the wind and tossed out in the sea. Scrambled and slammed and sliced. In the city….no time seems to pass…the seasons bleed into one another like broken cement stones and clash and crash like white wisdom teeth. The streets gnaw and grind like molars and still and still…nothing stands still…nothing moves toward. Paint chips, windows glaze over…and yet…time sticks to the roof of the sky and sits blankly. As if morningnoonevening were a word you could pronounce with one mouth. As if fallwinterspring were a moment in time unwrapped. Out in the land, out in the country, out in the insect swell, time is a compass pointing towards the ever approaching horizon. There is no horizon in the city. There is no horizon in the city. Just uncharted waters and graphed out locations. Saying, saying, always always: I am here. Where are you?

Back home in the nowhereland. Where the time of day is setting. Surrounding. Where the time of day is chasing you down the freeway. 

Back home where home means more than a word. Back home where the time between here and now dissolves. Back home where a storm shakes the foundations of town. Back home. Brown teeth, wide roads, open trees splintered towards the sky…even in the dead of winter. Especially in the dead of winter. Back home where Nassau Street glows with its own solemn music. 

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