prediction

here I sit, my legs numb now, barely feeling the gravel on concrete beneath me. my back is cool against the metal cage, I am perched above distant flashing lights, amongst a cacophony of beeping, trains on tracks, tyre on road, and a tram that clack-clack-clacks. all of this, and the soft sound of wind, constant…which is really the sound of leaves rubbing against each other and their branches banging on nearby signs. a storm comes, soon, probably – this is, of course, according to the weather, unpredictable weather. in Melbourne, i think, the weather is an apt example of epistemological failure. the ultimate example of us clinging to the idea of prediction. i cradle my laptop, my fingers flow, drumming away, and with a fuzzy glow, i am comforted by the certainty of mind to text. people pass by, some smiling, seeing me, pointing – ‘mum, look, she is up there, so high’, one person stops to take a shitty photo on an even shittier phone. a tiny dog barks, jumping on its hind-legs, its pointy nostrils pointing towards me and its black eyes full and round as it watches a tiny blue sparrow fly and land on the nearby handrail. and  i wear a jacket covered in eyes, it is black, and red, with tiny specks of gold scattered through the lining. it is friday, and there is a storm coming. there is an ugliness in beauty, and such beauty in this ugliness, i think, and i breath in a deep breath of car fumes and decide to climb down.

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