I think we were his ghosts, Pulling up at the pub he never opened, While the car radio played the news. Smoke. It was just a pit stop along the highway - a
All covered up in a brown nest I learned to call a “chrysalis” / And I could spell it too: C.H.R.Y.S.A.L.I.S. / And she told me that patience had power, That the caterpillar in the chrysalis would turn to goo and then into a butterfly. And all I had to do was wait.
After a long, anxiety-inducing summer spent isolated with my parents in our family home on the burning NSW South Coast, it seems I learned some lessons about dread and impending doom that have come in handy.
I have an inner monologue that is constantly running, like the voiceover in some off-beat Australian dramedy. Walking down the street is like the first sequence of ‘Offspring’.
