I remember Chadstone, the first place I saw a wall of televisions. Those
robots of my childhood synchronised twenty sitcoms simultaneously. Or displayed
in phases what I would enjoy or buy or believe. Nothing’s changed, only more
robots. My hand touched the glass outside, cool with June morning. My hand
could turn to any motion, the twisting writing of alphabets, invention of lines
to explain shopping centre isolation, their cactus gardens and voracious
escalators. Now there are more robots than humans. Their half-life obsolescence
leaves a leaden matrix over our world we resist, persisting with our quiet
twisting unknown poetry.
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