I've been awake for hours, surfing from one thing to the other on the Internet. The last thing I looked at before it began raining a couple of minutes ago was information about the Swine flu vaccine. Every year I get vaccinated and every year I still get afflicted with something. Although last Winter I was quite well, but that was probably due to the fact that it wasn't as cold as previous years. I find rain comforting, not that I necessarily need to be comforted, here on a Saturday morning in North Melbourne, but the soft, regular sound of the rain has a pleasing affect. The sky is white and there's an occasional sound from a train leaving the nearby station. From my lounge-room window I can see cars and trucks moving along Macauley Road towards Bolte Bridge - the road is rarely empty - even at 3am there's always someone driving West. My apartment on the first level has a view of my neighbours roofs. Every time I see all the aerials poking upwards towards the sky I think of the film Fahrenheit 451 (Francois Truffaut, 1966) - book burning, lack of critical thought, the importance of the televised image, the power of narrative and memory. It's easy to sit here with soft rain-drops gliding on the window, the tree outside in a slight quiver of anticipation, the illusion that all is well and I'm sure it is. This all reminds me of last July, or was it August - a name I wrote with my finger gently on the foggy glass, the romantic exchange, distant, but still alluring. Enough! That's gone. Soon I'll be domestic and then go out in the rain. I hope it lasts long enough. I hope I'm not too slow.
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