Sydney is obsessed with illumination. Fireworks when smoke encircles the city, old growth forest turning to charcoal. Light that dances on still winter buildings. Air that burns in the chill.
After the plague, people slide from beneath their doonas, step away from their streaming subscriptions and wade through the throng of crying infants and their parents, who are also crying. Inwardly.
After the plague they stand in the winter winds to watch colour move.
How many migrating moths fall to the ash covered pavements, seized by their own epilepsy, their inner compass broken?
That’s Sydney.
After the plague.
How contagious its lights, its movement-
frenetic,
garish,
intrusive.
After the plague we must keep moving, even if the sound of light invades the silence and
Give me stillness.
Let the sky breathe.
Leave the architecture be, let the buildings slump into night’s cocoon.
Let it be.
Word upon Word 