That was good. I felt this quiet sense of relief - and total wonderment as to how it could ever have gone otherwise. I was stoked my friends were there with me. Sat around under the oak trees in Albert Park for a while afterwards, rearranging twigs on the ground, shooting the shit, letting time feel slow. That was a relief, too.
The afternoon, more frantic things in an office, ho hum. Got home in the very dark, wondering if I'd perhaps do some more writing this evening. Nah. Sometimes I don't check my letterbox: it's stuck behind a big metal gate and you've got to snake your arm through its bars and feel about for mail. Then all you get is a yellowed, week-old Central Leader and a flyer about dog grooming.
But this time around I felt about in the dark and there was something thick and heavy, and it was a package from Chris full of copies of the second issue of Suburbophobia.
I read it and couldn't fucking stop smiling. It's a bit more pensive than the first one. But I love it. Come and get one soon. They're free.