In the morning I was visited by forest spirits, dripping grey crud from the trees, crawling forward through the dewy sludge, towards me, towards me. Craggy faces and outstretched spidery digets seeking me where I lay under bone white sheets.

Fog smothered the house; an impermeable moist membrane keeping me and the spectres close.

On the eve of my 30th I think of nothing other than the years gone by, faces passing through the gloom, words spoken. Should I have climbed that branch or the one yonder; should I not have wiped the mud from my toes?

I shiver and pull the blankets closer. Outside wraiths whisper.

In the jaws of the world I stand, pushing against her pearly whites and ignoring her lapping tongue. I can see into the distance – the band has just begun.

In my dream last night you appeared, a ghost in my memory, your creased hands clasping mine, and as we walked through the garden you stooped and plucked a little pink bud and held it up to me and said: “This is a fairy toothbrush – watch your step, this is a magic place.”

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You’re so fuckin’ special

But I’m a creep,
I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here

I don’t care if it hurts,
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice
when I’m not around
You’re so fuckin’ special
I wish I was special

But I’m a creep
I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?”
- Radiohead

If you could rewind the clock, would you?

For a few brief hours, the night forgives us of all our sins.

You are a socialist cokehead, we know from your clothes
You are a Satanist worshipper, oh, that’s evil
You think you’re poet, a folksinger, a poser – oh oh.”
- The Dresden Dolls

Sometimes you have a choice; sometimes things just happen. But that didn’t stop the feeling in her throat that she should have chosen the other door. Outside, the wind howled and trees rattled like a thousand snakes. She felt her rib cage draw tighter.

It was no one’s fault. There was nothing which could have been done to stop the story from unfolding once it has begun. And really, why should she have wanted to it to stop?

The powder on her face itched, but her hands hung limp by her sides. At the end of the hall way something moved.

Under heavy clouds I retreat until tomorrow.

Photo: St Ali, South Melbourne.

My breath lingers moist in the air as the world slows down around me. Little hairs rise along my arms in defence. My ears hear the shuffling of the millions pressing past me like so many ghosts; but no words. I fall backwards and cover my eyes as the light pierces through the darkness.

Photo: Pitt St, Sydney.

Sydney says hi. She’d love to come to Melbourne but she’s just too busy with all of her other social appointments. So much to do, such little time, right?