Coaldrake only has three fingers on his right hand. The middle one is missing.
Have you ever lost a finger?
It isn't pleasant,particularly when a dog is involved. He is self conscious about it: terribly. In a way, that if it had been a congenital birth defect he might not have been. He catches glances towards his hand, and always feels a little guilty, as though it is somehow his fault, that his lack has caused someone to feel uncomfortable.
His clenched fist always looks peculiar. It hurts when he punches people, the middle knuckle often cracks and bleeds. He uses his fist a little less, perhaps, than most garden variety detectives, well, he would like to think so, at any rate. He credits his success to that approach.
The dog is still alive. Maybe that says something about Coaldrake: that he never lobbied for it's destruction, that it's still getting about. He'd like to think that it does. He'd like to think that he does not bear it any bitterness and that makes him somehow a better more considerate person.
The loss of a finger can define you. It's interesting how an absence can define you.
Try not to look at his hand. You've read the file.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
There were fiddles lined in a row.
Mention shivered at the sight of them. Eight fiddles. And in front of each, in a small puddle of blood, was a tooth.
Mention rubbed at the knots in his neck. The drive here had been hell. The traffic worse than he had ever experienced, and then, well, half an hour before he could find a park. Could have walked over from the office. Couldah, shouldah, wouldah.
"Mr Coaldrake," the voice startled him from his knotted reverie, and the rough pressure of his fingers. He winced. The speaker, dressed in a Fiddler's white suit frowned. Mention recognised him at once, Audi Pax, senior Administrative Officer of the Collective.
"I was expecting you earlier," Audi said.
Mention smiled thinly at that. "What happened here?"
"We were hoping you could tell us."
"What were their names?"
Audi pulled a note from his pocket. "It's all here," he said. "As you would understand, we don't want the police involved."
"I understand alright," Mention said. He was hating this more than ever. Someone was killing Fiddlers. Who could be that insane?
He rather suspected he would find out soon.
Mention shivered at the sight of them. Eight fiddles. And in front of each, in a small puddle of blood, was a tooth.
Mention rubbed at the knots in his neck. The drive here had been hell. The traffic worse than he had ever experienced, and then, well, half an hour before he could find a park. Could have walked over from the office. Couldah, shouldah, wouldah.
"Mr Coaldrake," the voice startled him from his knotted reverie, and the rough pressure of his fingers. He winced. The speaker, dressed in a Fiddler's white suit frowned. Mention recognised him at once, Audi Pax, senior Administrative Officer of the Collective.
"I was expecting you earlier," Audi said.
Mention smiled thinly at that. "What happened here?"
"We were hoping you could tell us."
"What were their names?"
Audi pulled a note from his pocket. "It's all here," he said. "As you would understand, we don't want the police involved."
"I understand alright," Mention said. He was hating this more than ever. Someone was killing Fiddlers. Who could be that insane?
He rather suspected he would find out soon.
Sometimes he forgot.
Sometimes he forgot.
He just forgot. And the days would slide by.
And they would become months.
Just because he forgot.
I could never forgive him for that. Leaving me hanging, between two banks. Have you ever been left hanging? The third bridge, is often congested. But does it really take months to cross it?
There were fiddles lined in a row.
He just forgot. And the days would slide by.
And they would become months.
Just because he forgot.
I could never forgive him for that. Leaving me hanging, between two banks. Have you ever been left hanging? The third bridge, is often congested. But does it really take months to cross it?
There were fiddles lined in a row.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Bridges of Perjure
There are only two bridges leading into Perjure. The first of these, should one stick to a strict chronology is so old that it can scarcely be regarded as anything more than a museum piece, should a museum ever be constructed large enough to house such an edifice. It is called variously The Old Bridge, the Clamour, or the Petecross. It has never been modified for modern traffic, some blame the various councils for this, others the populace's apathy. It is worth noting that the Collective of Fiddlers' Grand Meeting Hall is built on the Southern side of the Old Bridge.
The second bridge is a single span steel structure, built in 1972, it is simply called The Bridge.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
These Promises are Teeth
These promises are teeth. Hungry, he thought, but still hard. He'd never collected promises in a drawstring bag before, and they rattled.
Promises.
These promises - rattling on the bus, in the bag - loud enough to draw attention. His long fingers, nails bitten to the quick, played constantly at the drawstring.
Where are we going, promises?
He knew where they were going. He had bought the ticket, it curled in his pocket, warm with his warmth.
It was an arduous journey. Sweaty people, all that flesh compacted in a vehicle that stopped and started, stopped and started, so frequently that it never seemed to get up a good head of speed, all those smells, food and fart, and their conversational equivalents. By the end of it, 19 hours in, entering the city at night, he had become one of those sweaty people, and just a little manic. He found himself laughing at the strangest things, the ragged hairdo of the bookish boy in seat 18B, the white bit of thigh of the lady in 16A. He found himself rattling the bag, and all those rattling promises, and laughing.
He got off in the rain.
You ever been in the rain with a bag of promises? You ever marched through the city, your face broad with a 19-hour smile? You, ever done that shit?
He found the hill in the dark, stumbling in the rain and the dark. He sat on a bench, looking up at the hill. And he opened the bag. Stared inside.
These promises rattled.
Out. Out.
One after the other, they rattled and tumbled and wondered how they had ever managed to fit inside the bag. They felt significant, these promises. They grew slick in the rain. They caught the streetlight.
He touched them, each one, with his chewed on fingertips. He measured them. He observed them. They were hard and they were meaningful, and they were slick. He hesitated.
Children. Children. He whispered. You're things that should be forgotten. You're things that daren't be. You're the soft caress of lips. You're the hard hope, and the long pause between glimmering and dream.
Of course they were.
These promises.
He left them on the bench.
He scrunched the bag tight in his pocket, and ran, the drawstring, both ends, flapping and flopping, reaching out from his pocket, reaching back like the stringy arms of a stringy mother bear to a lost cub, reaching back to toothy promises gleaming in the rain.
Promises.
These promises - rattling on the bus, in the bag - loud enough to draw attention. His long fingers, nails bitten to the quick, played constantly at the drawstring.
Where are we going, promises?
He knew where they were going. He had bought the ticket, it curled in his pocket, warm with his warmth.
It was an arduous journey. Sweaty people, all that flesh compacted in a vehicle that stopped and started, stopped and started, so frequently that it never seemed to get up a good head of speed, all those smells, food and fart, and their conversational equivalents. By the end of it, 19 hours in, entering the city at night, he had become one of those sweaty people, and just a little manic. He found himself laughing at the strangest things, the ragged hairdo of the bookish boy in seat 18B, the white bit of thigh of the lady in 16A. He found himself rattling the bag, and all those rattling promises, and laughing.
He got off in the rain.
You ever been in the rain with a bag of promises? You ever marched through the city, your face broad with a 19-hour smile? You, ever done that shit?
He found the hill in the dark, stumbling in the rain and the dark. He sat on a bench, looking up at the hill. And he opened the bag. Stared inside.
These promises rattled.
Out. Out.
One after the other, they rattled and tumbled and wondered how they had ever managed to fit inside the bag. They felt significant, these promises. They grew slick in the rain. They caught the streetlight.
He touched them, each one, with his chewed on fingertips. He measured them. He observed them. They were hard and they were meaningful, and they were slick. He hesitated.
Children. Children. He whispered. You're things that should be forgotten. You're things that daren't be. You're the soft caress of lips. You're the hard hope, and the long pause between glimmering and dream.
Of course they were.
These promises.
He left them on the bench.
He scrunched the bag tight in his pocket, and ran, the drawstring, both ends, flapping and flopping, reaching out from his pocket, reaching back like the stringy arms of a stringy mother bear to a lost cub, reaching back to toothy promises gleaming in the rain.
Coaldrake Mention
Coaldrake Mention sat in his office, hunched over papers, and photographs of teeth in little plastic bags.
Rain outside, storm tapping it across the window like deliquescent morse code; the little heater at his feet humming, and him breathing fumes electrical and plastic. No wonder he had a headache. You get some days that are pure headache, and from first waking, maybe even last dreaming, you know it, and it doesn't argue with your expectations, just proves them over and over. QED.
He straightened the papers. Today was a damn migraine.
Phone rang, he didn't much care to answer it. The phone didn't much care to stop ringing.
Sighed, at last, lost to the jangling phone. Couldn't even outwait its bells and troubles.
And it was trouble.
"Yes."
"Mr Mention?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, Mr Mention. I have no doubt that you are busy, but he said you would help me."
"Who said?"
The name was one that could not be denied. Someone he owed far too much, and far more than his word. QED. The day said.
"What's your problem?"
"The Fiddlers."
Of course it was. QE fucking D.
Rain outside, storm tapping it across the window like deliquescent morse code; the little heater at his feet humming, and him breathing fumes electrical and plastic. No wonder he had a headache. You get some days that are pure headache, and from first waking, maybe even last dreaming, you know it, and it doesn't argue with your expectations, just proves them over and over. QED.
He straightened the papers. Today was a damn migraine.
Phone rang, he didn't much care to answer it. The phone didn't much care to stop ringing.
Sighed, at last, lost to the jangling phone. Couldn't even outwait its bells and troubles.
And it was trouble.
"Yes."
"Mr Mention?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, Mr Mention. I have no doubt that you are busy, but he said you would help me."
"Who said?"
The name was one that could not be denied. Someone he owed far too much, and far more than his word. QED. The day said.
"What's your problem?"
"The Fiddlers."
Of course it was. QE fucking D.
Friday, April 4, 2008
The tyranny of cranes.
The city is strung on cranes, or appears to be, they jut above the skyline, so many that it is hard to tell what purpose some of them serve. There are cranes apparently suspending towers in the sky. And then there are cranes that rise above mute pits in the ground, that swing and lift, that operate continuously, though nothing ever seems to be built. Get too close, or so the rumours go, and a sniper might find your throat. Get too close and your last sight, as you tumble, down, down, down, might be a pile of bones, and rotting things yet to give up their meat, and crows -- their beaks crack, crack, cracking against flesh and harder matter -- because crows are rather fond of carrion, and, beneath that writhing fluttering mass, skulls looking up senselessly, dead-eyed or empty of eye. And every one of them understanding that tyranny of cranes.
After work today
After work today. With 8 tedious hours behind a smiling mask. Went out for drinks. Wore cords. Which was a mistake. With every step they made rubbery sighs. Who wants to be reminded that they are wearing cords? Who wants to suggest that they might have fat thighs?
I smoked, and I hardly ever smoke, except when I'm uncomfortable, or clutching for some sort of glamour. Smoke and rain, what the fucking hell is cooler than smoke and rain?
Jack was there. And he's cooler than me - smokes more casual. And he'd nodded over his beer, over the balcony and at the distant hill.
"You ever been up there at night?"
I shake my head. Getting up there means effort. The road's gone bad, there's no public transport out that way, and the city's growth is all directed somewhere else these days.
"Fucking know what you mean. But if you ever do. I've heard things. There's a cave and it goes for a while, a long while, and then there's a door and it leads somewhere."
Where does it lead?
"Just somewhere."
And I'm interested. Piqued and all.
But he just laughs.
"They say you can hear music, beyond it. They say, but I've never known anyone who has."
Talk moves to other things then and I forget about that odd place, exchange its memories for another couple of pints of beer and the various bullshits it pulls out of us. Jack knows how to talk, I smoke until my guts churn and then I walk home, because I cannot afford the fare.
It's spring and the cranes loom, then drift into the distance and the inner suburbs parade their old buildings crammed at base or pinnacle of undulations between units. In the dark, or the half-light, they look like mausoleums, and along the powerlines possums scurry, swift, running to war or to root, or whatever the sky drives them to.
This is my city and my lament, but it is the only city I have ever known and I do not seek to rage against it with words like some old writers who feel their youth an Arcadia. Mine was all heat, in a middle of nowhere town, behind mountains, the earth cracked, the roads straight as sin. The city was always bones and ruin. That's what cities are, they can't help it, because that's what we are.
Gotta get up early.
When I pass the cemetery, I see her. A camera in hand, snatching the city out of light and the air. She doesn't see me. But I see her there, and she burns the insides of my eyes like a photograph. She burns the insides of my eyes so that I know I will not forget her. She burns the insides of my eyes and I know it's important.
And I'd be brave and speak to her, but all my mouth can say is - Wo-
- Wo-
- Wo-
What halfwit thing is that?
Jack went home with someone. Pretty. A crooked smile and a wry laugh.
I went home to vomit and to dry retch.
I crawl into my spinning bed, arms wrapped around a bucket like it is an old lover, arms wrapped around a bucket like it will carry me to safety or pleasant dreams.
And it does neither. Just stinks of my spew like an accusation.
I have to get up early.
I don't, because I don't sleep. I get up early alright. Because I am already up.
Dress in my work uniform, knot the tie against my vomit-agitated Adam's apple, pull my crumpled trousers up over spotty legs and stale underpants, tuck in my shirt, curse the morning for the night before, curse the night before because it never promised this.
I smoked, and I hardly ever smoke, except when I'm uncomfortable, or clutching for some sort of glamour. Smoke and rain, what the fucking hell is cooler than smoke and rain?
Jack was there. And he's cooler than me - smokes more casual. And he'd nodded over his beer, over the balcony and at the distant hill.
"You ever been up there at night?"
I shake my head. Getting up there means effort. The road's gone bad, there's no public transport out that way, and the city's growth is all directed somewhere else these days.
"Fucking know what you mean. But if you ever do. I've heard things. There's a cave and it goes for a while, a long while, and then there's a door and it leads somewhere."
Where does it lead?
"Just somewhere."
And I'm interested. Piqued and all.
But he just laughs.
"They say you can hear music, beyond it. They say, but I've never known anyone who has."
Talk moves to other things then and I forget about that odd place, exchange its memories for another couple of pints of beer and the various bullshits it pulls out of us. Jack knows how to talk, I smoke until my guts churn and then I walk home, because I cannot afford the fare.
It's spring and the cranes loom, then drift into the distance and the inner suburbs parade their old buildings crammed at base or pinnacle of undulations between units. In the dark, or the half-light, they look like mausoleums, and along the powerlines possums scurry, swift, running to war or to root, or whatever the sky drives them to.
This is my city and my lament, but it is the only city I have ever known and I do not seek to rage against it with words like some old writers who feel their youth an Arcadia. Mine was all heat, in a middle of nowhere town, behind mountains, the earth cracked, the roads straight as sin. The city was always bones and ruin. That's what cities are, they can't help it, because that's what we are.
Gotta get up early.
When I pass the cemetery, I see her. A camera in hand, snatching the city out of light and the air. She doesn't see me. But I see her there, and she burns the insides of my eyes like a photograph. She burns the insides of my eyes so that I know I will not forget her. She burns the insides of my eyes and I know it's important.
And I'd be brave and speak to her, but all my mouth can say is - Wo-
- Wo-
- Wo-
What halfwit thing is that?
Jack went home with someone. Pretty. A crooked smile and a wry laugh.
I went home to vomit and to dry retch.
I crawl into my spinning bed, arms wrapped around a bucket like it is an old lover, arms wrapped around a bucket like it will carry me to safety or pleasant dreams.
And it does neither. Just stinks of my spew like an accusation.
I have to get up early.
I don't, because I don't sleep. I get up early alright. Because I am already up.
Dress in my work uniform, knot the tie against my vomit-agitated Adam's apple, pull my crumpled trousers up over spotty legs and stale underpants, tuck in my shirt, curse the morning for the night before, curse the night before because it never promised this.
Photogirl 1
Once there may have have been a certain heroism in the city; a satisfaction of construction, creation out of which the city grew, that first creative moment, the first building to rise above the single-storeyed miscellany, the grids of street and their namings - old kings and villains and professions.
But now the city grew, carried on its own inertia, plunging ceaselessly, into the future, and there was nothing great or grand in this senseless growth.
Its businesses ran with the sere expectation of profits, knowing full well that such things came at the expense of jobs lost, efficiency reduced -- for it is better to mollify efficiency than profit(they are not the same thing). They cowed their staff, set unreasonable targets (so they could paint them on their employees) and demanded to know why these targets were not met.
There was a tyranny of cranes, of dust and machinery, of building pits caged in steel and lit at night with a dreadful brightness.
She thought it beautiful. And almost every waking hour -- of which there were many -- she sought to capture it.
She brought the camera at an op shop, quiet cheaply, not even expecting it to work, but it did.
It was the end of the age of film.
People wanted to know why she took pictures in such an archaic way, seemed offended by it, or sorry for her. But it did not worry her. In fact that was the one thing that did not disturb her.
She was a mass of contradictions, calamities had made her, whittled away, until she stood, a new sprung thing made of old doubts and fears.
She lived alone with her camera and her dark room, and her collection of sharp things, which she used to cut. And she would watch the blood splutter and blubber from her. And she would watch the blood splash. And she would feel the hurt that she had made - all by herself - and the sometimes, if she was not careful the awful, scary terrible scar, that in a minute or two would have her calling a friend, or the ambulance, but for a moment was pure bliss, because she had made it, had released her demons a little, had watched them splatter, and spatter; bloody tears neither miserable nor joyous upon her clean floor.
And no matter what happened afterwards, she would have that moment - swift as it was to fade - and it was like a drug to her, and it tracked her skin as terribly as any drug.
But she had that moment.
There was always some new anxiety. Her lovers - and she took many - would laugh at them, before succumbing to their own. Perjure is a city of anxieties.
The only time she was truly unaffected, artless, was when she peered through the viewfinder, making art stripped the mask from her face.
But now the city grew, carried on its own inertia, plunging ceaselessly, into the future, and there was nothing great or grand in this senseless growth.
Its businesses ran with the sere expectation of profits, knowing full well that such things came at the expense of jobs lost, efficiency reduced -- for it is better to mollify efficiency than profit(they are not the same thing). They cowed their staff, set unreasonable targets (so they could paint them on their employees) and demanded to know why these targets were not met.
There was a tyranny of cranes, of dust and machinery, of building pits caged in steel and lit at night with a dreadful brightness.
She thought it beautiful. And almost every waking hour -- of which there were many -- she sought to capture it.
She brought the camera at an op shop, quiet cheaply, not even expecting it to work, but it did.
It was the end of the age of film.
People wanted to know why she took pictures in such an archaic way, seemed offended by it, or sorry for her. But it did not worry her. In fact that was the one thing that did not disturb her.
She was a mass of contradictions, calamities had made her, whittled away, until she stood, a new sprung thing made of old doubts and fears.
She lived alone with her camera and her dark room, and her collection of sharp things, which she used to cut. And she would watch the blood splutter and blubber from her. And she would watch the blood splash. And she would feel the hurt that she had made - all by herself - and the sometimes, if she was not careful the awful, scary terrible scar, that in a minute or two would have her calling a friend, or the ambulance, but for a moment was pure bliss, because she had made it, had released her demons a little, had watched them splatter, and spatter; bloody tears neither miserable nor joyous upon her clean floor.
And no matter what happened afterwards, she would have that moment - swift as it was to fade - and it was like a drug to her, and it tracked her skin as terribly as any drug.
But she had that moment.
There was always some new anxiety. Her lovers - and she took many - would laugh at them, before succumbing to their own. Perjure is a city of anxieties.
The only time she was truly unaffected, artless, was when she peered through the viewfinder, making art stripped the mask from her face.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Collective of Fiddlers
The fiddle is a curious instrument, difficult in its construction, tuneful only with effort, and more likely to sound like a cat being tortured than anything melodious.
The Collective of Fiddlers was a whole whining chorus of mistreated moggies. A ferociously miserable and high-strung cabal of cats. Peculiarly the collective shared the utter inability to recognize their mutual awfulness. Many a fine fiddler, new to Perjure, had sought them out. None had ever managed to pass through the threshold of their grand meeting hall, and even that was at risk of bleeding ears, and ground-bloody lips. They were so incredibly dire, but that didn't mean they were unpopular.
Oh, no, they were very popular, indeed. The Collective's diary was always busy, with this appointment, or that. They played in all the great halls, Opera Theatres, and performance spaces of Perjure. The simple reason being that no more effective method of pest control has ever been invented. A single performance and every rodent, roach and mite would be gone, leaving only a stench of terror (quickly removed with a light fragrance- lavender being the most popular).
Which was how the Collective became the most powerful of artistic (not just musical) groups, their coffers always full, and their interests expanding because, while none of them could play a single pleasing note, every single player knew good investments from bad.
In Perjure you don't piss off a fiddler, especially if they cannot play.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Trolley Boy
"You want to see something?" the trolley boy said. "I ain't shitting you. It's something."
He lit a cigarette, blew smoke in my face. "On my ten, got time." He smiled. "That is, if you're not scared."
I told him I wasn't. He grinned. Blew more smoke and led me down. Past all the trolleys. Down. Beneath the carpark. Down. Into the bowels of the shopping centre, to a hallway, its concrete walls stained with the sweat of the earth. Then along the hallway to a single unpainted wooden door.
"Open the door," he said.
I opened the door.
And there it was, in the tiny room beyond, a head in a trolley; eyes staring.
"Hello, mother," I said.
He lit a cigarette, blew smoke in my face. "On my ten, got time." He smiled. "That is, if you're not scared."
I told him I wasn't. He grinned. Blew more smoke and led me down. Past all the trolleys. Down. Beneath the carpark. Down. Into the bowels of the shopping centre, to a hallway, its concrete walls stained with the sweat of the earth. Then along the hallway to a single unpainted wooden door.
"Open the door," he said.
I opened the door.
And there it was, in the tiny room beyond, a head in a trolley; eyes staring.
"Hello, mother," I said.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Moderately Successful Man
He was a moderately successful man. Still had all his teeth, and a man with all his teeth has not suffered the acrimony of the world. Have you met such a fellow?
Perjure is full of them. Deep sleepers one and all. Until the world bites.
I knew him a little. Well... as much as you can know such a shallow, affable pool of a bloke. No depths to plumb, but the possibility there might one day be. Perjure has a way of finding these people out. Perjure knows how to deepen the mere.
He was a moderately successful man. All the Bruised Poets of Perjure were. Go to the Vale of Last Drinks, talk to the toothless, the broken, the scribblers.
Tell them I sent you.
Perjure is full of them. Deep sleepers one and all. Until the world bites.
I knew him a little. Well... as much as you can know such a shallow, affable pool of a bloke. No depths to plumb, but the possibility there might one day be. Perjure has a way of finding these people out. Perjure knows how to deepen the mere.
He was a moderately successful man. All the Bruised Poets of Perjure were. Go to the Vale of Last Drinks, talk to the toothless, the broken, the scribblers.
Tell them I sent you.
In My Pockets
are a sharp-edged ring
the teeth of two dead poets
a river boat
a book of poetry
lint
keys far, far too numerous for my single bedroom apartment, or my job,
cotton wool to stop the keys from jangling
The questions you must ask yourself
are why am I lying in your bed
and what else is in my pockets
the teeth of two dead poets
a river boat
a book of poetry
lint
keys far, far too numerous for my single bedroom apartment, or my job,
cotton wool to stop the keys from jangling
The questions you must ask yourself
are why am I lying in your bed
and what else is in my pockets
First Sight
I have very little recollection of my journey here.
Money changed hands; I know that much.
There were tickets of numerous sorts, paper, plastic, a small metal ring (it's edges sharp enough that I cut my fingers, reaching for it in my pocket, and when I had handed it, its gleaming surface smeared with my blood, to the conductor she'd smiled, and passed it back quickly, happens a lot, love, she'd said). And there were horrible dashings from one terminal to another, punctuated by long hours, even days of waiting. I think.
But that is all, that I retain, of the journey. My reasons for coming are even hazier. Indeed I have no real idea at all. You'll hear that a lot, which is one nature of this metropolis. It is the city of seeping hesitations, sweeping gestures, it is the grand melting pot of lies.
But that is true of us all. Why are you here? Why did you ever leave the womb, when all there is are tombish certainties and taxes?
I have very little recollection of my journey here. But I do remember my first sight of the city. A hastily drawn sketch, handed to me, in a bus stop, in a small country town that was obviously already fatally bleeding towards the city as all such small country towns do. That sketch was my first sight of her, and I recognised her, even though I hadn't seen the city before, and the drawing was but a fragment of it. I recognised her as I would my own face, my lovely Perjure.
Money changed hands; I know that much.
There were tickets of numerous sorts, paper, plastic, a small metal ring (it's edges sharp enough that I cut my fingers, reaching for it in my pocket, and when I had handed it, its gleaming surface smeared with my blood, to the conductor she'd smiled, and passed it back quickly, happens a lot, love, she'd said). And there were horrible dashings from one terminal to another, punctuated by long hours, even days of waiting. I think.
But that is all, that I retain, of the journey. My reasons for coming are even hazier. Indeed I have no real idea at all. You'll hear that a lot, which is one nature of this metropolis. It is the city of seeping hesitations, sweeping gestures, it is the grand melting pot of lies.
But that is true of us all. Why are you here? Why did you ever leave the womb, when all there is are tombish certainties and taxes?
I have very little recollection of my journey here. But I do remember my first sight of the city. A hastily drawn sketch, handed to me, in a bus stop, in a small country town that was obviously already fatally bleeding towards the city as all such small country towns do. That sketch was my first sight of her, and I recognised her, even though I hadn't seen the city before, and the drawing was but a fragment of it. I recognised her as I would my own face, my lovely Perjure.
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