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 was 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 was 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…)