The melody came like a wave. The sound heightens and melds
all experienced incidents from the shock and slap of a forward moving foot
taking the full weight of a man to the lurch and swing of a shoulder joint as
an arm travels forwards, loose fingers wanting always to be the first
extremities to move into a new space. Breath and lung-bottoms contrive to
engineer the whole chest to receive and reject and receive and reject nothing
tangible to the naked eye. The sky wheels up and pulls down above everything
like a hood and there is the wind. The unnamed wind of London St, Enmore New
South Wales, rilling up and down the false dawn hill for reasons not one of the
residents properly understands, except him.
False dawn was transformed for two minutes. All parts of him moved together in symphony, fingers, heels, heart, thought, breath and he
crested the hill before the song wound down. He turned the corner into shadows
under shop-awnings and gained momentum as his body understood he was no longer
climbing but walking on flat ground.
The song concluded in one golden burst of resolution and he found his parts disconnecting their psychic union and resuming ordinary
operations of holding coins for the bus, manufacturing saliva and planning out
the first work tasks of the morning. He more clearly remembers coming back into
himself, the dissolving and dissolution of a golden two minute experience than
the walking moment itself.
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