Don’t look at the platform behind you.
Don’t count the number of eastern-suburb-bound trains heading past while you wait for anything going towards Clifton Hill.
It just doesn’t matter.
You’ll be home soon enough.
When she gets home, I’m staring out the bedroom window taking the photo up above. My camera eye has faded over the past month as I’ve withdrawn into work. Photography (and writing) feels like physical exercise – if I do it regularly I always see photos to take or words to write, but once I fall out of it I have to push myself to get back into the rhythm. I feel empty without them, another hollow consumer on a Spencer Street platform waiting for the mechanized wind to ruffle my hair and take me out of here.