Darlinghurst Days #3

The growl of the gravel truck, lumbering through empty city streets. Hydraulic brakes screech in the hollow night, broken glass spits over the tarmac... Police sirens puncture the two seconds of silence... black dogs prowl the edge of tranquillity... night horrors...

Time to take the road heading north. 

Darlinghurst Days #2

It is the music that grates the most. Blasting out from a building site, seeping out of the not quite so well sealed Range Rovers and Porsches, sliding under locked doors and permeating the fabric of every waking hour. The sort of songs written by middle-aged men, produced by middle-aged men, sung by washboard teenagers for wrinkled mums.

The ghastly drench of auto-tune smothering the nuances and humanity of a multi-tracked vocal. Glib sentiments turning Hallmark statements into "iconic" observations for the numb-dumb...

Sampled beats, plug in and decay... AI harmonies for the dismembered generation. Gliding round in huffa-puffaz (check 'em, new brand, made by silicon splurgebots) - kidding you not, thanking you lots... ZAP!

Darlinghurst Days #1

The incessant throb and grind of traffic, interspersed with the jackhammer, crash of scaffold and wailing of the fluorescents clambering up & down, in to out & from street to sky. The noise, the bloody noise of motorbikes, trucks and recrimination. 

My world has got noticeably smaller, the Dog on the bed snores gently, the pile of books on the floor grows by the week. I don't read them, why should I? They will only remind me of the world as it used to be. 

Things will change though... as I refuse to go on like this.