It is half past ten on Saturday night and I am alone in the living room of the run-down terrace house in Surry Hills that I live in. Belinda is spending the weekend at her boyfriend’s flat again and Natalia has gone out. The sickly orange light from the Chinese paper lampshade fills the room with a nervous, aimless energy. My over-stimulated retinas conjure slow-moving, oddly-shaped creatures in the shadows, like black-and-white photos developing in a darkroom. In the background Natalia’s red Philips cassette deck plays the Cowboy Junkies, but tonight the plaintive voice fails to stir my numbness.…
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