The sun may shine in Sydney, but it does little to warm our hearts. The bitter wind of discontent screams through it's streets.
An unnamed and faceless god conspires to keep us apart.
Illness is sweeping the city, and we are not immune. Bedridden for days, we can only take comfort in our dreams. Dreams of each other. It is, for the moment, only in these subconscious arenas that our love can be felt. True and deep. Our imagination is such that, once our obsession can be consumated, it may never be enough. Waking from our dreams, moaning loudly, we are reminded of the distance that seperates us.
It is not only sickness that fights us, a fearful dictator has taken over Wynyard. Now, forced into slavery, even our weekends are disappearing.
We can only hope to see one another soon.
For now, we have our memories and, of course, our dreams.
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