origin[al]s

there's something inately comforting about the grampians. partially it's the family history - the mother growing up and the little old ladies who invite us inside for champagne for lunch while she tells us about my grandfather. the hundreds and hundreds of pictures people pull out for us to look at and the art on the walls and the hot, hot hot hot weather and the sand in the shoes and the kangaroos and rabbits and one lone emu. olive trees and old couples making us tea and all of it.
partially it's just the town itself. we walk through the main street. buy shoes. find a health food shop. what are the chances? make friends with the owner. she makes me a soy chai and tells me about her little boy. he runs around.
if people are this open, don't they run out of things to say to each other, eventually? does everybody just know everyone else's stories?

goodnight internet. one day we'll all work out our cultural confusions. self realization in literature will die a slow and largely unnoticed death. it's kinda boring, anyway.

i miss this place i've never lived in.

hit me with a flower, andy warhol. adieu friends.