imaginary cities: inter —

City of vapour trails and suns that set like eggs in a sky of brandy. City of drivers on auto-pilot and air pregnant with the rumour of the first snow. Snow so fine it falls in shards and can only be seen in the light of the eerie streetlamps. Wan glow so eerie it makes you feel like snow. Tomorrow morning you will walk out your door, see the damp bitumen and think: last night it snowed. Only here and now, in the alleyways of Inter, snow is just a jotting on a “to-do” list, like missing your appointment with thanksgiving and going out drinking instead. Compiling a list of body-parts you would like to photograph. Check the hourly news bulletin for a ping from some long-lost friend or your new-found love. Burying your new-found lust under a tree, then walking three circles around it. Crying at the sight of children holding onto handrails and not looking down as they inch towards the tempting sweet. Air so cold it makes your eyes wet, coming out of the subway with no gloves and nothing around your neck. The foolishness of your desire to run naked through these lanes. The flecks of rain that were once snow. The imaginary cities your friends are creating, right at this moment, in a sunnier climate. The earth spins yarn. An exploding neon monument, retracted. Connections missed and promises broken. Plans for a new year, a new visa, a new city. The place of the heart in the act of thinking. What do you feel? As autumn breaks under the pressure of its interconnection with the snow, you decide upon something. The egg of your frozen head dictates a punk shadow but you walk alone anyway. Women hear you coming and cross the street. Dogs hear you walking past and lift their earflaps quizzically. The cats are all frozen in place. Their eyes are slivers of snow. The cars stop at green lights. Outside the grocery, a glass steamer for memory buns gathers condensation. How to tell the difference between raw and boiled eggs. Red date stamps on your palm. Inquiries as to the validity of your educational qualifications. Moments on a passport waiting to expire. Photographs of a human face in sunlight. Blocked pipes and tepid water. These are the times when you would like to run.


About the author

Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.

View his full biography.

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