A morning about her

Teacher types sit in traffic and exercise latent horn blowing tendencies. I see kids scuffing knees in playgrounds and my ears are cringing like devils. Hands furrow into my pockets and I realise with alarm that they aren't mine. So I crease my body forward in annoyance and imagine exploding car shells blowing debris into treetops while unprotected arses speed over bitumen. Feet below me wade into the weight of today and I see that I am only here and now, and it doesn't really matter anymore. I'll follow rules and learn about history so as to marvel like every other sentient bastard, how we never learn a thing from our past. It's our social contract, and considering arguments for erasing those who dissent I whoosh back to a trudging monotonous meditation on Bourke St. The whole dark grey line of it is being lit with my memories as I wash past and lacquer and plaster experiences over street lights and cafe shopfronts. Brett Whiteley is journeying out for his morning paper in paint splattered overalls 100 metres in front of me. People heavily riffled with life are sitting in languorous loungerooms having breakfast and staying sane with trivial rituals. The whole of Surry Hills is awakening as I realise we're just a slash of babble and noise on rich layers of filth and life. So very many layers. I imagine breaking free and surfacing outside of all this and gazing at an azure firmament mixed with streaks of magenta. My legs are kicking to keep me afloat and I implicitly understand that there would be no going back, so I submerge back into a world of translucent broad leafed trees and joyous seed pods wiggling to greet the rising sun. I force my lips and cheeks to mould a smile and ignore the pressure in my chest. It hurts so much, and I shouldn't think of art or music, so I scrape the stylus across the record playing in my head, and snap the cantilever with my fingers. I should bury her soon or by god the stink of it all will drive me crazy.