The grassy hill acts as an apron for the Victoria State Library. It catches the crumbs of visitors too tired from their studies to make it to the sidewalk. There is also the splatter from the street: passers-by, baked in the intense sun, and craving a place to recline and recharge. I am of the former.
I have just borne witness to the armored suit of Ned Kelly, Irish champion of the poor in this region, and this absorption of history -- as well as another overnight flight -- has left me with eyes slowly closing. I have just 24 hours in Australia, but is there something more important for me to do then rest?
I close my eyes, listening to the sonic stew that this locale provides: overlapping multilingual conversations of those around, chimes of passing trolleys, the enigmatic calls of the birds (the seagulls sounded like crows and a crow sounded like a duck)...and the busker in symphony blacks not ten meters from me, serenading the world with his contrabass.
Is there something more important than this?
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