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Trayce is obsessed with telling tales about Canberra, and about drinking. I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?
The Old House
Patrick Hayes was depressed. He didn't know why. Life's like that, he'd tell himself, taking another swig of the red. Patrick hated all his friends, but he couldn't understand why they were all so rude to him; He just didn't understand it at all.
He would sit in the old house, by the fire, and stare into the flames. He would throw his cigarette packets into the grate, watching them deform and blacken. Only the house seemed to understand him, it hovered around him, held the roof above his head with care. The house was his only hope. At least it never complained of his presence. There was only one thing for it: he would have to stay put, if things got much worse; he would barricade himself indoors,in the dark, against the bastards. Only in the house did he feel safe, like he belonged.
When he thought about it though, Patrick could remember a time, long past, when he wasn't quite so lost. It comforted him to think of it, to know he didn't come flying into the world with the sense of dread, the chaos, that he felt now. What happened to him? Perhaps he was possessed. Possesed with fear, anyway. As if being watched. Something like that. What was he saying - what an excuse! Still, any excuse would do. Something had to exist, a myth needed to be created in his mind, something to support the crumbling mess his life had become. All the time he'd lost. The people he'd watched spin away from him, him standing in the still eye of a raging hurricane.
Time expands, time stands still. Outside, the moon shines on the roof of the house, in through the windows, casting its light into every corner. It is almost as bright as day under the moon tonight. Dali's clocks melt on the loungeroom wall, and the house sags, tired of holding its roof up.