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Janice carefully composed her face as she went to the door. Really, this was becoming very tiresome. There were times she almost wished Bob hadn't died. Comforted by yet more flowers held by a sombre faced friend, she infused her voice with a mixture of grief and gratitude.
"Estelle, how kind of you to come"
Estelle replied briskly," It is the least I could do" Stepping forward, she embraced Janice, kissing her. " How are you coping, dear? My sincere sympathy."
Releasing her friend, Estelle continued, " My dear did you know that he was...er... that he...er." Her voice trailed away uncertainly, before finishing in a rush, "seeing someone?"...
Something strange is happening at the Rosewood Apartments on Bourke Street. First there was the dead flying fox hanging from the power line, and then it had fallen and was lying face up on the dead grass rotting and decaying. Hours later someone placed it on top of the wheelie bin left on the footpath since a bin collection night at least six months ago. The bin complete with dead animal was standing next to the driveway reminiscent of a lion watching over the entrance to an estate. Except this was a half-decayed flying fox on a smelly wheelie bin in front of a 1980s brick apartment block. Instead of a protective lion's glare warning passers-by to keep out, the charcoal face had a look of pure terror with the mouth wide open mid-scream. What message did this convey to passers-by instead? That horror lies within and not grandeur worth protecting? Perhaps the flying fox was protecting the passers-by instead of the inhabitants...
Six a.m. Switch on the radio. Although the pale light through the eastern window is not quite morning, six a.m. to seven a.m. gives us time to wake, savour the familiar warmth of being together, and perhaps dream for a little while that we are still as we once were. We pretend that we are listening to the news, but he is dozing again and I am searching for the bone of a storey, the core idea for a poem. Seven a.m. It's very important to get out of bed now. To delay is to invite further collapse of our illusion, which in it's own time will collapse anyhow.