There are wisps of dead wattle tree leaves on the floor. A pile of clean but unironed laundry in a basket. Crumbs on the kitchen bench. The glass-topped table is covered with papers, paper clips, receipts that I go to throw out and then think I'd better keep for a while longer, keys, mobile phones, bananas. Books on shelves are dusty, silverfish wait in the folds. Venetian blinds turn darker with the dust of time. I don't turn my head to look at the garden because I know I will see weeds blooming with unrelenting force, creeping into vegetable beds to throttle the struggling bean and the valiant tomato. I close my eyes to banish it all, only, of course, to see the real chaos booming within.
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