On my way to Flinders Lane I spot an art exhibit created simply of bundled newspapers. Yet that one phrase sticks out, perhaps because it reminded me of another – the turgid miasma of existence. Breaking the surface of the street I’m surrounded by a 2pm school of minnows, circling, swishing down the street, back to their offices after lunch? It’s hard to tell. I dodge and weave my way up Centre Place, every cafe full, every face staring me as if to suggest I was in their way (what, do I think this is my town or something?). A moment’s respite upstairs in a quiet shop before pressing on, across the dreaded mall and into the shop of many yellow stickers. Errands dispatched, vanishing down an escalator and onto a train headed north, I remember there was more I intended to do in town – but once I’m stuck in a crowd, my survival instincts kick in and navigate me somewhere, anywhere, out of here.
On the way home, Croxton station stares back at me. I’ve got a memory for almost every station in this town.