what is this
a photo reply thing for ants?
lolz.
things from before.
In Queen Victoria Building, the smell of waffles filled the air. There were so many legs, long and brown, stretching out below unaffected faces.
(It’s terribly easy to be overlooked. That may be what I like about Sydney, but on the other hand, I’m sure parts of me want to stand out.)
Town Hall station is an extension of hell. Its humid platforms and tunnels are breeding grounds for body odour and sweat. The poor children in blazers, trousers and tights are defeated. There is hair everywhere, plastered unattractively to foreheads and napes of necks.
(Always act as if someone is watching you. Even on impossibly hot train platforms. Someone will see you, even if it’s just from the corner of their eye.)
Inside the train, there is rustling. Newspaper pages folding and scrunching and turning.
The gentle jolting of t he t rai n be ats an i nconst ant r hythm in to t hi ghs an d l owe r ba c ks an d headslollandeyesdroopandsleep, imsosleepy.
(I heard that good writers are good watchers, but I just… I just had to close my eyes…)
I keep staring at "Add a Text Post"
and I’m wondering if in the past thousand posts, I’ve given rise to anything beautiful from text boxes and blankness.
For everything you’re read, up until now, thank you very much.
taste.
Metallic gladiator sandals, unflattering dress and unnatural orange-brown skin?
Well, if that is his preference, what could I possibly do to dissuade him from it? Of course I can’t do anything! But I refuse to pander, or to change; after all, my own taste prevents me from turning into exactly what he likes.
