I'll keep this brief.
I've seen the Bill Henson photographs twice, they're amazing. I particularly loved his landscapes. The sky in one of them looked on fire.
Walking across Princes Bridge yesterday I noticed Red Symonds, I think I pointed to him mischievously in order to indicate I'd recognized him. He smiled and waved.
I've been rather sick the past few days. Ran a temperature of 39C degrees for 48 hours and no amount of paracetamol made it reduce. I couldn't sleep because of body pain and have been trying to help my students, when I'm essentially running on empty.
I wrote this poem a few months ago - cheerful little number it is, but it seems to sum things up because I still feel rather ill.
All of life
we avoid this
unfathomable hole
only to be
eventually swallowed by it.
The long boredom
stretching ad infinitum
no longer affected or
determined by our own will
remains a voracious
gaping mouth
without boundaries.
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