The overgrowth of time. Our skins have changed. Stormy waters. To be near you. At the gate. Waiting. And it comes up from the ground. Don't miss your chance. Those left outside become compelled. Though nothing guarantees something to contribute. Too personal to part with, too intimate to commit to paper. It's perforated. And writing blind, the earth bore its colour in ochre. A soft summer with its layers of sun and sand. The details visible overhead, etched out. Grounded by its sheer expanse. Wide and continuous. It's my kind of place. I am of this land. But the gums don't stand as they used to. Soured at the roots. The landscape has changed before us. Now it's just a shadow of the Dreamtime. It's a strong image and one I would hope weren't true. Pitch black. I wonder where we are. They're coming. There will be others. You won't catch me around here old friend.