As another button comes loose from my aging black coat, I remove it and place it in my pocket. I can’t imagine I’ll actually do anything with it, but I don’t want to let it go. Soon I’ll have a pile of threads and buttons, and that’ll be all that’s left of this beloved object. Each minor tragedy, each lost button, is another nail in its little box-like coffin. I’m wearing »
I’m waiting for my train to start moving, when I notice a small white rectangular sticker near the door. In rather small writing, it tells me that “anything’s possible!”. Indeed. »
The [Bolte Bridge]1 has two red lights, one on each tower. They wink at me, one a little faster than the other, such that they blink in and out of sync over the space of a few minutes. Sometimes I wonder if they’re trying to talk to me, like how a friend told me about the lights atop some Brisbane building would give hints as to the upcoming weather. »
I’ve just watched Infernal Affairs, and I’ve got post-film eyes again. My tram screeches through the Flemington Road roundabout, cars going every which way. I’m just a little disconnected, grasping for something to hold onto. »
Once in a while, you get a taxi driver with a story to tell. This guy told me how he’d driven tour buses for years, and needed a new challenge – he was bored of driving to the same few destinations. “When you’re a taxi driver, you’re always learning,” he said. The western suburbs were new to him, much as they’re still (fairly) new to me. Good luck, dude. »