I humbly attribute my inspiration for this piece to
At Flinders St. Where we all wear masks. No air to breathe. In that silvery Gotham. Must I stay here? Among their blackened souls. Where only the moon and sun and stars remain of what is real.
I dream of ancient land. Far or near. Dewy. Cool. Salty air. With flowers, and vegetables, and fruit collected in a basket on my arm. And old bottles of green and brown collecting dust on my windows. Parchment yellowing in tins and boxes. Rising early with a furry friend at my heels.