The Moth Don't Care That The Flame Is Real
I stir more readily sometimes when the world's unconscious. Thoughts tend to flow more readily when they aren't contending with the sounds of suburbia. So like the proverbial moth this morning I found myself drawn eastward on dawn patrol. There's a slight blue tinge in the firmament, bats are on their last rounds. A public pergola in a parched Camp Hill reserve completes a ley line between the city and the light. I stalk the sunlight for an hour or two, sneaking through the streets of various assorted human subtypes. It gets bright. I catch a glimpse of the elusive human, then another later on. Three subtle variations on the same middle aged lady jog past me on three different streets with some great exotic dog bounding in supplication alongside. I get milk and bog roll and high tail it home.