December
accepts its weaves of workers, casually industrious. Scumble of cloud over the slapped-up
stadium could be rain. But the bee-lines return to more online paperwork: it
pays. Badging protests against aloneness and bread-and-circus posters won’t last
a week, forlorn imitators of glowing advertising inside cafes’ inset TVs.
Railway heavies stand around a Myki freeloader, write down the same old story,
touching in its way. The city’s towers stand anonymous as the man in the grey flannel
suit. Peak performance non-stops, greenly indicates another day. It’s why
railings shine, why orange teams are quick to repair a broken down escalator.
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