Shuffle along the corridor

These thursday nights at The Gallery, in the air conditioning, from these windows the province house looks like some terrible resin photograph. The kind where a golden, glinty sun is flashing its backside through the treetops. I sit on my hands to warm them and when I pull them out, they’re sore and blood rushes stiffly. There’s paperwork everywhere, invoices in a stack still sitting in the printer, paintings piled.

Listening to the album of the young man who shot himself. (which one is it? there are so many)

I know many of you have left this town, flown to crisper air and skylines. Yet the longer I stay here, with every damp winter, my toes curling up in three pairs of socks and feet becoming sandy and callused in the treachery of oven-heat Julys, the more I love it. Like a stray animal bullying it’s way into your house. And I’ll leave it like so many of you have.

‘No matter! Spaces and places are temporal.’ said the Professor.

‘Like your powers of reasoning.’ muttered the Writer.