Plastic Solitude
Next to my friends' house in Kensington was an old abandoned home, faded and cracked weatherboard, with holes in the deck and fallen timbers cluttering the doorway. One night while we were partying, I slipped under the construction fence with some mates and took a look inside. Almost as soon as we'd entered the house, one of my friends wanted to leave - the energy didn't feel good she said. It felt like there was a old, angry force pushing her out. She left, but me and Ben felt good. It felt warm and dusty and cluttered, like there had been someone living here, growing old, collecting their cloak of darkness around them and their belongings; waiting. There was a large workshop attached to the house on one side of the main hallway, full of hand tools and bolts, all stored in that classic shed fashion of carefully marked containers fashioned out of old fruit tins and plastic cartons. Perhaps it had been a man, alone, dieing slowly who lived here. We felt safe, welcomed, resp