Hours of my life are siphoned into buses, my body fetched up and dispatched across the city, bobbing and jerking with inertia along the nonsensical, divergent and congested paths that are Sydney's ill-planned roads.
Did you know that all the country highways are traditional Aboriginal walking routes? Evolved over hundreds of thousands of years for their ease of access. Sydney roads by comparison are an artificial web cast across a landscape which I have always felt sighs underneath its itchy and tightly wrapped synthetic skin, that just continues to grow like bacteria.
Bees plan their cities more intelligently.
There is, on these meandering journeys, hugely romantic and aesthetically ingratiating treasure to be found. The combed current of a black head of hair heavily saturated in brilliantine, fluent Mandarin sounding like a sweet small bird piped from a four year old, impossibly thin white hairs protruding from a pink spherical mole on the neck of a sweating obese woman. These things are free for everyone to look, and you don't have to strain your eyes. Just calmly cast your gaze.
Yes, I am being effusive. What's to be expected? I'm 23, in love with lots of things.
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