Prose Blog

The veins of rivers and shadow of forests are struck through by an overlay of our perfect geometry; straight roads like ruled lines of permanent marker, margins on a page where the sentences are the square and circles of farms, and the creeping grey of city centres sprawling into suburbs.

My car is a 2004 Holden Commodore Acclaim; champagne panels wrapped around a powerful engine.

She was the first car I ever drove in. Dad took me to the high school near my house, just past the swimming pool, halfway to Peregian. He parked her down the end of the long, empty road and I drove her up and back, taking advantage of the weekend quiet.

His empty soul occupied the rooms of their house. The carpet in the corner held the place where she once sat, legs stretched, guitar perched on her lap and wicked grin painted across her lips. He remembered watching her there, remembered how he felt that day. Wondered what went wrong.

A man is walking down Shinjuku Dori as the sun approaches the horizon. His polished shoes splash in the remnants of the day’s storms and his briefcase feels heavy beside his carefully pressed pants. He keeps his head bowed against the cold dusk breeze, trying to ignore the scent of freshly cooked ramen as it makes his stomach rumble.

This room is filled with many people, but you can’t speak with any of them. They talk to one another, muttering hushed syllables that you don’t understand. They read signs you can’t read, and they watch television programs you can’t decipher. In a country where everyone is connected, you have never felt so alone in your life.