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— — •• ••

you told me

you are an october baby

and i cannot get out of my mind

the drippy heaviness of Fall

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i am at a party

i am at a launch party

s and m are here

there is red and white at the back

all twist-off caps, no corks

all for that easy glugging

by postgraduates and media practice professionals

there is an author here

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lost light

where is my bicycle light?

who knows, who cares, who —

i know it dropped off my bag, where

i had clipped it,

when i jumped over a bump

near Stanmore Library

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Time and Toby

I take my time, blinking slowly, back at Toby, who doesn’t seem to love sitting on me as much as he does my sister.

He, like me, has spread his body across the cold floor.

Nearby, and even nearer now, Lucky approaches, loathe to allow Toby any lion’s share of affection.

“This house has a dog and a cat,” his underbite insists, “not a cat and a dog.”

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had i gone on foot instead

Ang Mo Kio Avenue 3 is a heavy-duty road and an elderly man was walking on the tarmac, tottering forward on bad knees, palms pressed onto a hard cart handle.

Before his feet, the wheels of his overloaded cart were gnarly nubs that would never glide again.

I braked before him. “Do you want to come onto the pavement, Uncle?”

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Hypnagogia

Strictly speaking, hallucinations happen on the threshold between wakefulness and sleep, when you are falling asleep or rousing awake.

They feel unmistakably real. Yet, they are false. This is why I love hallucinating.

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There Will Be Time For As Long As There Live Humans

“Be careful who you make memories with. Those things can last a lifetime.” — Ugo Eze

This is a quote that Google delivered up. It strikes at my heart when it puts so starkly how we sear moments in our minds, as if hammering nails into stone.

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dear deers

Thanks to Disney, we all know what a deer looks like: a tufted butt with speckles spread, skinny stick legs, and beautifully brown eyes and fur.

It never got old, deer-spotting in New Zealand, a spectator sport from the seats in our rental car.

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A Day In A Train

It is early in the day at the underground section of Sydney Central Station and defiance is in the air.

A tradie, the local lingo for tradesmen, glides up to the turnstile on his Bianchi bicycle, and is called out by the station officer.

I am between the two older men, an unabashed witness to their unpleasant exchange.

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