My globe was mainly pink. My atlas, a rash of prudent conquests. When the sun set over Lygon Limbo Melbourne it had already set on Forever Foreign Field Empire. Glam rockers came out in hot pink, unblushing. January 26, a non-day. Sleep through sunrise, line of rose prose. Maybe a spot of gardening, but don’t get burnt. Coral grevilleas in a vase. If it rains, retreat to browny-pink China tea. Read about Invasion Day, everyone in a pink fit. Or US elections, a pinko fit. Later siesta, behind lids a whiter shade of red-eye, a purple doze. No pink elephants.