the classical

ode to Bent St

Another weekend surrounded by general decay. A blue wheelie bin lies sideways in the Princes Park pond, and in a street not too far away I spied an old television smashed on the pavement. The wind blows tiny flowers past my feet as I stare each way. It’s hard to know which way to go, but I can feel myself drifting again. I wake each morning with sore ankles and memories of dreams I quite can’t understand when I put all the pieces together.

now playing: giant sandis all over the map.