A people’s museum, a parade of bodies. Sleepwalking zombies have taken over the streets and humans are doing nothing about it! Who knew there were sheep in the city center? Too appropriate for New Zealand, eh? Thoughtlessly following strangers in herds. Yet, sheep are more intimated. I could be silent for an entire day and nobody would even notice. It is as if I am watching them, completely engulfed in the dramas of their lives, inundated by passion, unknowing to insecurity; estrangement. The city is slowly sucking my soul away. My voice lost in the buzzing chirps of cicadas, knocking against my eardrums. If a girl walks in a city and nobody sees her, is she really there? 

(One of my downer moments)

Girls clinging arms as if when they let go, they will be lost in the whirring traffic, inhaled into oblivion. The trees, almost props in the city stage, paper leaves and cardboard trunks, dichotomous to their surroundings. Cars; machine-worker-bees. I have no desire to touch or feel any of these people, yet I feel my body, emptied, an exoskeleton, a shell, needing to find a host in the accompaniment of others. I know the cure, but can’t be bothered. Movements are slow and calculated, looks; meaningful, but what do they mean? Interrupted from a dream, the lanky Amazonian-like Avatar of a boy/man (what are they at this stage) awkwardly addresses me. Having kept in silence for so long, it takes a minute to process a familiar face let alone form my mouth around the sound of words and so they trail off, but the time has passed, and he probably only heard a mumbling discordance from my direction. I find a sort of comfort in apathy, a rightness. I am not unhappy or happy—I just am. I guess I could go look for a different café, roam the city, but a I have no inclination to spend money or meet people I will never see again… unless there is promise of a crème de menthe…. Perhaps a craving for nostalgia rather than its taste. Still I sit, I am somehow gravitationally impaired.