I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

Tentatively I Stood A Great Lump Of Wood On The Chopping Block And Bought The Axe Down On It. It Flew Into Two Perfect Halves. Such Was My Elation That I Ran Inside, Put On Our Ancient Cracked Record Of Aretha Franklin Singing Respect And Danced All By Myself For Half An Hour In Our Living Room, Without Inhibition, Almost Crying With Jubilation – Not Just About The Wood, But Because I Could Live Competently Some Of The Time, And Because That Day I Liked Myself.

But There Are Some Wounds That Can Never Be Healed.

People Demand A Lot Of The Justice System And They Demand Things That It Can't Deliver.

And Always Melbourne, Melbourne, Melbourne, Over And Over The Same Photo In Glaring Greens And Reds, Of A Tram, Huffy, Blunderous, Manoeuvring Itself With Pole Akimbo Round The Tight Corner Where Bourke Street Enters Spring.

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.