Sydney
The confusion is an entertaining read so long as the reader can hold the ground from which in front of judge jury and executioner to tell them to go fuck themselves.
The cicadas pop out of their skins, something else for the roaches to run in. Birds make a killing and the cats come on real hard, nothing but morning winter suns to warm their jollies.
The radiation peters out round here in Wolli. Type mad any hour. No spoken word for hours on end. Bat away at the typewriter. The conversations strike a pose a rhythm whilst sitting bolt upright.
Warm cool hot gusty day. Venture outside into a consume-me-here-now-world of the private/public debacle space. Every little bit of that soy chai ends up on this page. Drink or drown.