Weak Become Heroes
Many of you can have already seen this at some point or another.
This overly referential and angsty final project from high school was at the time my largest work. It’s a bit difficult to read in hindsight, but plugging away and polishing this up for six months was a valuable exercise when I was 17ish.
Just past dusk in late February 2024
the richer ravers will jet off to germany in the winter but theyre stuck here while it snows in berlin stretching from the warehouse door to the darkness of the industrial estate how long have they been coming here two weeks three weeks im a mormon in comparison theyre a whole different kind of cult neon and skin is hardly my style hope tottenham beats wolves i should be feeling wired after that pot of coffee i should be more excited about tonight but i didnt have much to do with the coup de grace the twelve hour shower the dusk till fucking dawn i certainly didnt hire that french dj mustang or stallion or whatever he mustve cost art a fortune maybe hes pro bono hes probably shit anyway i miss madchester and december and the squelches of the 303 and cracked out screams of cracked out brits its going to take something more potent to stomach highpass filters and eurogates fucking hell martin garrix ruined my life as long as i find art itll be alright
---
Reminiscing, a long while later
I was just bored. Jay and Art were keen, but for different reasons. Jay saw dollar-signs the moment Art pitched it, despite Art’s insistence on the free party’s power to make history. The third summer of love, right in the middle of fucking sweltering Sydney.
Art had become enamoured with the Hacienda. It was a Manchester nightclub, famed for bringing rave culture from the shores of Ibiza to the bored, pimpled urban youth of Northern England in the late 80s. It was the Accrington brick hearth of an underground society, its fluid communes birthed by generators in warehouses and Welsh forestry, an escape from Thatcher’s ‘individuals and families’. For weeks, Art would assault us with stories about the disco and its owners, the famed synth-pop band New Order.
“Peace, love, unity and respect.” Art would say to us.
“Those ideals spawned a movement, a culture.”
We were too drunk off Art’s generosity to chat shit. He fixated on movements, whether they were the Modernists or Martin Margiela or a new kind of chemical bliss.
He always played the priest, the rest of us traded between cynic and choir. You could stomach the monologue if you were nursing a shit latte from Maccas, where at 5 am the crusty faux-leather seats were filled with night shift nurses, hard-glaring eshays and other cliques of stylish, self-conscious youths keeping up appearances.
Art was a little older than me, finishing off a BVA at USYD. Tuition fees had forced me into English, even though I didn’t have the writer's touch, I had no chance at a grant or scholarship for painting, that shallow pool had dried up in 2020. I suppose it all worked out in the end, I would never have met Art if I hadn’t been studying at the State Library far too early on a Monday morning. He would never have stumbled into my table.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
“Um, Notes from Underground.”
I recognised him in passing; he had bought the hearts and lips of the indie kids.
“Ah, Dostoevsky. Never got around to him, I’m here for Razorlaff.”
“Pardon?”
“Ray’s a Laugh? It’s Billingham, pictures of his family and their estate flat, y’know an intimate look at the working class.”
“Ah.”
“Look I’ll be honest mate, you look like you haven't got any friends.”
“Well, it’s early in the year y’know and-”
“You like the classics, you’re cute, you’ll do fine, add me on Insta, I’ll text you next weekend.”
“Oh, Alright.”
Nine months later and Art’s sermons had all started to blend, he was always selling me short. I was watching the bustle of the car park’s night-time economy when he posed his idea, counting up the face tattoos and generally ignoring his bullshit. I was starting to crave the underground, anywhere I wouldn’t have to pretend to be an extrovert. There were eight people crammed in the booth that night, I can’t remember any of them.
“Guys, look-look, we live in a time of great austerity and materialism, the neoliberal dream that Thatcher and Friedman and all those other dickheads thought up forty years ago has failed us, their words…”
He trailed off a second,
“dripped with the oil that took us to climate catastrophe, to absolute inequality, to the ab-so-lute blackness of the void. Textile, coal towns, Sheffield, Manchester, all gone, it’s right on our doorstep too, just out west.” a pause for effect -
“But do you know what those people did? They danced, they sang, they smashed up guitars. Instead of becoming steelworkers, they became the Stone Roses, and the Hacienda was born in a bellied up yacht factory. ”
Across the road, above the row of sheltered victorian homes, the stars were fading into the pink sheen of sunrise. The sting of expensive cologne as Art leaned into the table brought me back down to Earth.
“There’s an empty textile plant out west; it wouldn't take much more than a bit of heart to really start something, Nick, you’re always moaning about how isolating you find Sydney, you and I could change it. The hippies were the first, the ravers the second, we can start the third, the Australian summer.”
I couldn’t help but believe him, he was always so earnest.
Later that morning we took a train out to Strathfield, as the sun rose the skyline declined from Meriton high-rises to venerable and then drooping terraces; we edged closer and closer to the latte line. Our destination was an empty hole in the wall cafe next to an aging and out-of-favour brick and mortar bus interchange. Our mate Aubrey had the opening shift, she and I had known each other forever, but we weren’t close. I stole her colouring-in pencils in kindy; we never managed to mend that rift.
“I think I get it, it’s an extended free, that’s pretty cool.” she said, steaming the milk.
“Nah, not really, not in the way you’re thinking about it, it’s more political, more European, -look -you see”
Art lit up “After we finished HSC I went up to this generator party in the UK with my cousin, I was too chickenshit to take anything, still struck with fear after that dreadful year.”
Art could run a megachurch, if I shut my eyes, he was an impassioned Hills pastor.
“I remember it being 7 or 8 am, I was sitting on top of a muddy hill covered in frost, overlooking what felt like all of Wales and just staring at the sun; as it glazed the clouds and the country estates and the camp below; I sat there thinking Art...Arthur; this is who you’re meant to be.”
“That sounds painful on the eyes,” Aubrey said, scratching her septum ring.
“It was! But that’s besides the point.”
She smiled “A squat sounds fun Art, I don’t have anything else to do this summer.”
We settled it, Art would fund everything, my only job was to help him make history. I texted Jay, he was an Instagram entrepreneur about the whole thing, unhappy about the lack of profiteering, but was willing to join in, even if he swore off substances as a waste of wages. Art’s allure was irresistible.
---
its so warm in here jeans are sticking to my thighs but god knows ill never wear shorts i have an image to keep up even in the dark when dawn comes ill rejoin the real world read meditations start jogging learn to love these bourgeoise hacks a very bright future awaits me cant believe they like these shit tunes clean and sleek and commercial whatever its my last night anyway what time is it nine thirty can hardly see wait shit wheres my wallet there goes the pill then and any cash to get another at least theres drinks all about i guess its not the same but theres no need to pilfer rich kids will happily hand you a plastic bottle or silver pillow since theres no trouble hello im your sponsor child tonight africa needs a drink and i do too
---
Art’s desired locale was an old textile mill in Chullora. Liberalised in the late eighties, it sputtered and dragged itself along on the precipice of profitability until the GFC put it out of its misery. I knew all this through Nigel, a late boomer who used to work there, we stacked shelves together at the Woolworths Metro in Marrickville. The mill was untouched by kids for a decade because the rest of the industrial park was still occupied, 2020 cleared out the other occupants as quickly as when the lights come on. We found the roller doors bent open at the bottom, the hole just large enough for skinny young people to shimmy through, I tasted concrete silica in my lips. There were some smackheads inside, with a bit of cash they cleared off. The warehouse was hollow, with vast concrete floors, about eighty metres each way. There was no machinery left. The junkies had left some old couches they were too gaunt to move, as long as we were cautious of loose needles getting rid of them would be easy. It was old and tired and cold and perfect; well, not perfect, there were skylights, which wouldn’t be an issue if we lived under the ink and smog sky of an English industrial town, but we were blessed to be born in the sunny country, where it’s not nautical until nine. Art said he would go buy some tarps later. The day/night cycle would cease, we’d become nocturnal animals.
On the opposite end from the roller doors was a concrete building about the size of a two-bedder. It had a loo, bolted down benches and large holes where windows must’ve been. I coined it Nigel, in honour of the man left behind by the building’s liberation from government tyranny. On Nigel’s roof was a construction site shed, green paint peeled off the corrugated iron walls. Inside were a few faux leather chairs with their stuffing slashed. There were also some whiteboards covered in obscenities and dire sales figures.
RPC -8%
Richard is a shitstain
Q/Q PM -32%
The porta-building was smaller than the roof of the husk, three-people abreast could walk the perimeter, or one stumbling drunk. We supposed it was where the supervisor used to stroll about, eyeing off the workers. We weren’t sure; we didn’t know much about factories.
“Well obviously this is where we put the booth,” said Jay,
“What? No, you don’t understand, we’re doing this differently, it needs to be on the floor.”
“Art, if someone's sound system gets wrecked, you’ll have to pay for it.”
“Not a problem Jay, I’ll handle it.”
Our very first night, someone spilt a drink on our hapless mate Dazza’s laptop, it might’ve been Art, or was it Jay? I’ve heard it both ways. Next Saturday, the first DJ insisted he set up on the roof.
Nigel had a locked door. Jay pried it open with a crowbar from his Commodore, he was full of utility, as long you got him to shut up about Elon Musk. An industrial light turned on automatically when we opened the door. It was dusty and cramped but there were no crack addicts inside, which was a welcome sign. An old poster on the wall advertised the grand opening of Chinese Laundry, the city’s preeminent night-club, shame it sold out. The advertisement might’ve been worth something if it wasn’t haphazardly covered in yellow spray paint. A woolly couch took up a third of the room; it was snug and well-loved, which hardly fit the vibe. Art laid down and lit up. On the wall was a sad, old, grin-and-bear-it spray paint smile, it had seen better days. The smiley face was a symbol of the second summer. One of the British rags had popularised it by selling t-shirts, a show of support for the Acid House movement sweeping the nation. A month later they were calling it a new drug horror, fucking Tories.
“Maybe somebody tried this before,” Aubrey said
Jay nodded “I reckon they got cold feet.”
“Well, we’re different,” Art decided it was worth making a night of the discovery and invited a few mates. We blasted Screamadelica from Art’s speaker.
Just what is it that you want to do?
Well, we wanna be free, we wanna be free to do what we wanna do
And we wanna get loaded and we wanna have a good time.
---
this house is a draining love story this used to be a teleporter we could escape the fee hikes and part-time pay and disapproving dads we were transported from fucking sweltered neolib sydney back in time to manchester, which was still neolib but it had good music and spirit and heat I would slip past the roller door and enter a sea of smiles and sweat and baggy clothes we were the spitting image of what was thirty years before we just had phones now i think i just threw up in my mouth a little im glad i dont have to clean up this place tomorrow i keep getting elbowed need some water must be midnight we used to pack mingle overflow underneath the dj the dirty dumb angel boy all except Art he was always alone always the centre exerting influence radiating heat hes always been my gatsby my dean moriarty the pulse the backbeat I just shuffled around him where is he i could cry i think i might be quit elbowing me
---
Paul, weathered and bald, was our first veteran from the second summer, he had heard his youth while trouncing home from a night shift at the nearby Dulux Trade Centre. He was a Londoner so we hung onto every word about his club culture. We thought we already knew everything about Manchester.
“When I was a young lad, I used to- I lived in the East End to annoy my Da right? So I would take the tube- back when it was Jubilee- from Stratford to Charing Cross, and you always knew you were there because it had this awful lime green tiling and-”
He coughed up his lungs,
“Anyway, you would get to Charing Cross and try to get into Heaven for Oakenfold’s big acid house night, but nine nights out of ten you couldn’t get in because the queers and casuals got there two hours before. So y’know you’d save your pills for next week and go out with your mates and find something else to do, find a free if you're lucky but you’d often just end up pissed off in a pub somewhere. ”
“But what was it like when you got inside?”
“Yeah, it was alright, good fun for a weekend. You made friends with everyone, but you knew in the morning you wouldn’t really like ‘em anymore. I always found that bit sad y’know? The poll tax riots, that's when we really all came together, when Maggie realised we weren’t messing about and for once in her life she gave up.”
Later that night, Art and Jay rowed over whether Paul was allowed to use the microphone in the DJ booth.
“Come on Jay, he’s a part of history!”
“Yea come on Jay I won’t do any ‘arm.”
“Fine, but don’t fucking break anything.”
“Ding dong” Paul yelled into the crowd
“Ding dong,” they yelled back
“The witch is dead,”
“The witch is dead.”
“Ding dong the witch is dead.”
“Ding dong the witch is dead.”
Jay pushed Paul back down the stairs, he nearly toppled over his bad knees. Art sprung up to face Jay bull to bear. They drunkenly pranced up and down the steps, necks bobbing back and forth like fighting cocks. They would make up in a minute, I knew they loved their clothes too much to risk ripping them. Their pantomime signalled the night ending with half-baked bickering and economic tidbits exchanged back and forth across the table. Paul had provoked Jay at his capitalist core, Art would flame up in turn, trying his best to fill the role of a modern Engels. Well fine, they could bicker over Chicago or Austria or Keynes or Hayek or whoever else they wanted, what would it change. Paul was wrong. the witch was alive and well, what could I do about it but dance.
---
hes a joke a fraud late stage in one man then why cant i stop worshipping him is it the money the girls the boys the byronic face and byronic curls
hes the ideal the individual and hes picked you hes promised you youre different too that you're above the mall and marvel movies and social media and splendour that you're too special for all of that how can i hate rand how can i hate the invisible hand when it births a man so goddamn special so tall and thin and bright ill wake up and ill think far less of him but i still feel the same hell still be my mourinho sugerman or holloway
who is that waving on the platform jay i think ill go say hi.
hey jay what time is it
two
do you know what time he gets here
yeah should be here any minute
no i mean
oh art i dunno whenever im busy right now but you can wait for him here up wait are you crying
nah yeah its just something in my eye
oh stick around up here i guess and nick
what
spurs are down two at the break
shit
---
My favourite DJ was Benny, he was beat, bereted, basically a stereotype. He’d play house tracks for an hour or so but eventually succumbed to jungle. He’d have the Amen breakbeat on repeat, a new statesmen or civil rights leader sampled every sixteen bars.
When his set was over we would hang about on busted up bean bags inside the office behind the booth, usually with Art and anyone from downstairs that he desired that night.
“Jungle man” Art would say “even the name is empowering, it’s taking back and asserting the blackness of the genre.”
“Art, what do you know about jungle that isn’t in a Pitchfork article.”
“I’ve listened to enough of that white label Nick found” waving his free hand at me
“We weren’t there for it Art, we don’t know what it was like.”
I piped in “Nah Benny, I think I get it, or close enough too it, I hear it in your set.”
“I appreciate that Nick, but you’re a bunch of white dudes from the North Shore”
He pointed at Art “Him especially.”
About a month into the summer we had fifty, maybe a hundred-odd extra show up at the warehouse, they came from further west, smoked a lot more than we did and wore a lot of fake designer gear, in contrast to our Glebecore thrift. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They’d been sold the appearance of wealth and opulence, creature comforts as a poor facsimile of their labour. They weren’t fulfilled, maybe I wasn't either, we didn’t have much in common, on the floor it was gabber and hakks, I kept getting hit by flying TN’s. Aubrey and I ended up lingering about the office, it smelt of grape vape.
“At least Art is enjoying himself.” she said, peering out at him in the throng.
“He’s enjoying being himself.”
“More than can be ever said for you, Nick.” I liked Aubrey, but she could be a real bitch sometimes.
That night was the first time we had to kick anybody out. He was a Topshop tyrant, nearly bursting out of his polo. It wasn’t long before he took umbrage with some kid in skinny jeans and started a scuffle. Now, we were a scrawny lot. Jay was the only person you could consider ‘fit’ but he couldn’t train anymore because the local gyms banned him for selling supplements.
Being the most masculine hardly mattered, Jay had gotten his hands on a gun.
A gun. In Sydney.
It was fake, which seems obvious in hindsight, but the tyrant wasn’t sceptical either. Jay marched him out into the dark, parting the pink and green sea, he emerged back inside two minutes later, content in having proved his BDE, Art was just as triumphant. I didn’t pay it much mind, it was 2023, I was sick of life and death. When dawn came, the new crowd slinked out, their wallets wrung dry but looking forward to seeing their new best mates next week. Not me, I couldn’t manage anything more than small talk about Daft Punk. Not even Homework, the third album, the poppy one. Don’t get me wrong, great band, but who doesn’t already listen to Daft Punk?
Eventually, we ended up with a corner annexed by a group of profiteers, they sold drugs and water bottles. Art tolerated them, mostly because they gave him a discount, but they were integral to the infrastructure, the peddling pillars of the economy, and convenience brought the crowds back. But as summer rolled on, the bruises started to blacken.
Jay had the idea that we could control supply. Art had agreed. I watched them struggle to push through the congregation; it was late in the night (or maybe early in the morning), packed. It didn’t help that the merchants kept a perimeter between themselves and the rest of the floor. People danced on the border, but they didn’t dare cross it if they weren’t paying customers.
I couldn’t hear the conversation between them over the hardcore (which I hated) but Jay and Art were soon struggling their way back over to me.
“What did they say?”
Jay told me.
“That’s fucked up” I sighed
“Yeah, like, what would they do if we didn’t start this,” he said. Art was quiet.
“Well, I mean it doesn’t really matter if you did.”
“What d’you mean.”
“Well, the power’s free. The DJ’s free. Entry’s free. ”
“Right.”
“We can’t stop anything, things’ll only keep moving until they go home.”
By now Jay was nodding along, Art stared in the sea.
“Right yeah, exactly. That’s why we’ve got to start charging for the tap.”
“No,” Art said.
“For fuck’s sakes Art-.”
“I pay for it, I said no.”
Jay sighed, he respected Art’s capital, if not his benevolence. Art grabbed a durry from his jacket. I gave him a light. We ran a weird system in the warehouse, Art paid for water from a few makeshift bubblers made of connected hoses, but Jay insisted you couldn’t bring a bottle in. That didn’t stop a few of our mates selling them. Art wasn’t bothered, he really did have double bay money.
By late January Art and Jay had let the warehouse get to their heads, Jay was printing t-shirts with sly-inside jokes you would only understand if you were there on one specific night. Art had written his own Wikipedia page, it was taken down pretty quickly. They dreamed of going ‘semi-pro’.Jay’s friend Blair promised them he could make it true.
We met him at Aubrey’s cafe on Saturday morning, he wore chinos and loafers and smelt of saltwater from his morning swim. In contrast, we were a combination of beatnik and athleisure, crumpled from last night’s festivities.
The bus interchange was plastered in minimal green posters, tastefully designed.
Fruit and Veg Market!
Fresh and Locally Grown
Every second Saturday, starting 17th Jan
I guess the country was starting to bounce back, we could afford to go organic again.
Blair and I touched elbows “I’m in marketing but don’t worry, I minored in English,” he assured me. Blair’s MacBook was covered in inspirational stickers with sneaky copyrights to Atlassian and consultancies, early to bed early to rise, stuff like that. Aubrey was behind the coffee machine, tuning in in her free moments, the farmers market brought the cafe foot traffic. Fine by me, she and I were in a downturn.
“The beauty of social media Art is that without much logistical hassle, we can create a comprehensive, engaging strategy.” Blair’s PowerPoint was clean, filled with these little carnet ligne cartoons of people dancing, talking or focusing very hard on a supply chain management graph.
“For a small fee, we can get some local influencers to post some appealing visual content on their story, no slogans, no websites, just an enigmatic culture that’s around the inner-outer West…” he waved his hands “somewhere.”
Aubrey butted in “Culture? It’s just a fre- shit.”
She had spilt some steamed milk on her hand, serves her right. Art was sold obviously. Blair fit right in with his vision, the zeitgeist he wanted to mould. Blair thought we should focus on the societal critique to bring in a more affluent crowd. Art liked it. Jay thought it was brilliant, they’d pay more for t-shirts. The warehouse was now no longer a collection of text messages between a close-knit commune, it was, to those in the know Symes and Parsons. Gross.
---
you look a little pale my friend
oh jay va bien but… jay church uh
no worries i think my english is better than your français
im looking for art
pardon
if you play sweetest perfection hell come find me its his favourite
sorry my friend not for this crowd
please i just need to find him
i have to work now
please
come on nick lets go sit down
why would he just leave me like that
i dont know man lets just sit down now
i dont understand
---
In late February, the pacific pendulum swung into La Nina, the once-in-a-summer storms were now once-in-a-weekend, good for the farmers, so less for the ravers. Sydney plunged into an all-hours dark malaise. It was a Saturday morning, Jay and I were sheltering outside the warehouse, which was submerged a couple of centimetre deep in dark waters, it stunk of sewer gunk and eucalyptus and we were wearing white sneakers. The high steel portico sheltered us from the rain. Inside, an intern from Vice was interviewing Art, I suppose she hoped her article could jam open the door to permanent employment; when we were introduced I spied the Tiffany watch peeking out ashamedly from under an old Olympic ski jacket. She and Arthur trudged up to Nigel, her phone couldn’t pick up Art’s voice in the rain.
“Two minutes Nick, that’s how long it’ll take for her to figure out he’s just some inbred.”
“That’s not really true, he’s got a vision. ”
“Yeah, from a spare room at his Mum’s place in Bellevue Hill.”
“What.”
“His Dad’s cut him off, that's why we needed Blair, turn’s out he’s got a Bank of Dad and a Bank of Mum, two Christmases. Fuck, I wish my parents were divorced.”
A little while later, the intern strutted back out, Art a lion on a leash.
“But I didn’t show you the t-shirts.”
“You made t-shirts for your squat?”
“Well, it's hardly just a squat.”
“Right- well- that’s all I need anyway.”
After a run-in with somebody that dared be more cultured than himself, Art grew distant, morose, I would text him newspaper clippings, images, albums and interviews from our idols, not a hint of enthusiasm. When he moved on, his acolytes dispersed and it turned out nobody remembered me from Maccas either. For me, most nights now ended wandering about the well-maintained parks and warm alleyways covered in cultured graffiti, scrolling through TimeOut for late-night meals, I had regained the stamina to stack shelves and had even developed a little liquidity, I wasn’t permanently knackered anymore, wasn’t always weaving blindly through the dingy fiesta. Most nights I ended up at a warm, low-ceilinged tonkatsu place nestled in an arcade dangerously close to chic developments, memorabilia plastered on the walls, employee polaroids, Kirin advertisements, a Liverpool shirt with the restaurant’s name on the back. It was darker than outside, which was caught in the beige haze of light pollution. I sat down at the stout bar and nodded to the family in the kitchen, who took my order quietly. They hadn’t always opened late, I’m sure they knew in their hearts the buckets of broth they passed out could not save the sinking ship, sooner or later either Meriton or Merivale would swallow them up like Scylla and Charybdis. There was another man, in a suit, with an earring, willowy, he too looked like an aide without his minister, we both wanted to tag along with one of history’s great men. I didn’t speak to him obviously, white guys pretending their lives are hard is a fragile performance to keep up.
---
it was never the same after that night was it art doesnt even pretend he still cares about this place about me i hardly see him anymore hes moved on from here to something more special im stuck with jay and aubrey and fucking mustang and eshays and rich kids was nigels perimeter always this thin i might fall off the roof if i stand up i see you looking up at me you know my act has dropped im aware no hyperaware you think im sad and lonely but i know and you know you dont care about sudan and climate change and sunflowers youd stop smiling if i jumped i just wish i had that pill i need to wash my hands got the label under my finger nails
i may be self-centred but youre self centred too you twats you wankers you frauds
oh thats aubrey up the stairs shes a bit of heartfelt conversation at least she gets it
hiiiiiiii aubrey
hey nick how are you
im very well have you seen art
no sorry
i dont get it aubrey we had a good thing going here.
mhm
but now its filled with eshays and rich kids and pop music yknow
right
fucking art and jay arent you angry about it
not really
its just become the same as the junction or chinese laundry
nick have you ever even been in an actual nightclub
aubreyyyyy
i dont care if you hate the people and the music and everything else you only liked it here when it was filled with other rich kids that read kafka and marx
im not rich ive always rent
you talk about peace and love and unity and respect or whatever but you just exclude everyone that doesnt love the clash
aubrey you can be such a bitch sometimes
alright nick im gonna go dance
you know what aubrey im done with you and art and everyone im off I walked out of the church for the last time, sure I was correct and everyone else was wrong.
I sobered up walking north on the near-empty A22, I hadn’t lasted the full night. A slim purple crescent from the east captured the city in a caldera, warned me that eventually I would face the sober embarrassment of my spoilt ramblings.
lost my earbuds in the wallet could have used some nine inch nails
There was a cool breeze tickling my scalp, rustling the acacias and eucalypti
fucking freezeing isnt it january its good for you voluntary discomfort.
I couldn’t just shout about rave being dead and money and power on a morning like this tony wilson used to say some people make money and some make history and then he fucking died of cancer so where did that get him vomit on my docs and a Ralph Lauren jacket on, storming somewhere, anywhere, I was as angry and selfish as all the other young men and I dont need them and i never needed them a couple hours later I stumbled into Ashfield station, it was still dark, there were no turnstiles, i can jump it there wont be many officers at central my room at Yura Mudang was just down Broadway, but knew I couldn’t go back yet, I couldn’t bear the eight-hundred other students coming and going and bragging and moaning I had two choices, North, across the bridge to sandstone and mum and dad and eighties apartments with modern interiors or south as far as the line went its either nowra or bomaderry forcing myself to cool off, to be bored, to be myself without relation to what I excluded, sneered at or idolised. Either way, through skyscrapers or suburbs, I was going to watch the sunrise, I was going to appreciate it for what it was, without music or clean clothes or my wallet or Art.
three two at full time we might make top four after all