Purgatory

Opera House

Alone, in a hotel room, the boom-crackle of ignited Australia Day firecrackers and the screams of low-flying military jets, the zinging taste of Solo-In-A-Can, of gunky pasta marinara exploding slowly in my stinging stomach.

Sydney, why so Sydney?

A glut of solipsistic co-workers, with headphones (Apple buds, Beats By Dre); with hunched frame, a descending skeletal de-evolution; with sniffles and burps, with no salutations, no how-dya-do, and with a lunch half-eaten at their desks. Dying while sitting, minute-minus-minute. A life tripped-and-flipped, sliding slowly into the time slip.

Sydney, why so Sydney?

Seated on a ferry—brightly renovated in vain, struggle against obsolescence—walled in by men-and-women of a stony countenance, eyes-on-phones, smiles in their pockets, hearts on Low.

Sydney, why so Sydney?

A country bar in the city, Hank Williams/wailing banjo, free peanuts and candlelit closeness and a stag’s mangy head; tiki-bar Thursday, Twin Peaks, shirtless, pants-less, well-moustached, and a Bohemian Rhapsody full-throat, full-bar moan.

Sydney.

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