journeys

and then suddenly it is the next day.

Monday morning on the 8:10am from West Footscray. Packed train. Across the crowded aisle is a Vietnamese woman in a poorly fitting t-shirt entitled special gorgeous fantastic, which for a moment I understand to say  specious gorgorobot fantasy. Everyone is reading Dan Brown except for me and a sleeping salariman curled over his briefcase in a near-foetal position. I am lead to believe that it is the pose adopted by those who die in fires. They call it the pugilist’s stance; hands bunched, fists held high. I’ve got my nose in Idoru, purchased yesterday amongst the plastic torsos and operating tables. I haven’t read it for a forever. I am brought back, jarring, to my university years, much of it spent in the library reading cyberpunk.

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