Written at Burwood Westfield, on the balcony shown here, until it started raining:
Itchy. That was the thought that woke me. Woke me to the knowledge of words, woke me to the knowledge of sensations. Threw a strong light, constant as if electric powered, back down my memory.
The lice had been at me all day. For many days and evenings beforehand, certainly, but this day was freshest to me. All my terrazzo and my faux-parquetry was tapped and scuffed by their shoes, streaked with their food dropped and tracked, rolled on by their children tantruming or being strollered. This is what happens when the doors of your face are opened. The lice crowd in. When the day ends, their business is finished, and they crowd out again, leaving you…itchy.