It’s September, did you know? I don’t think I got the memo. Part of my head is still tangled in August’s heartache and July’s nausea while the other, regrettably, is wearing Sunday’s pants in Monday’s world. Apparently there’s no room for slippers in the daily grind, which is where we begin to disagree, the world and me. Spring afternoons are short and sweet like Perth winters and soon forgotten by long summer days. And I am addicted to cloud watching like my contemporaries are to debt and energy highs. I don’t think I dance alone but its where I find myself, day and night, in my slippers, dancing upon pages and words, words upon pages, pages upon words. But just before I drown in the unabated flood of information I arrive at the life raft of knowledge that it’s tea time. This is an ode to the time spent in escape, except that it is no ode at all. And I know before long September will give way to October like sadness gives way to surreal calm or calm gives way to disarray and eventually I’ll have to learn to stop writing in paragraphs that are lost from top to bottom.