there is no justice: there’s just us
A strange and melancholy dream. I was in a beautiful bookshop in Miller’s Point in Sydney, all dense burgundy carpets and parquety. As I checked out, the clerk accused me of trying to claim some frequent-buyers’ benefit unfairly, and I protested in the most bitter terms: I was Phineas Finn, more outraged at being accused of murder than at the prospect of being hanged. Even as I made my fuss I was saddened at the thought of refusing to shop there anymore.
Adorable teenage activists grabbed my hands and we skipped en masse over the Harbour Bridge, protesting something vaguely Bush-related. Another mass of protestors marched towards us from the south. Near the vanguard was Phil McAloon, in a Superman costume several sizes too big for him. We nodded civilly to one another.
