Morning

All the white things seem to have risen up, resisting the the darkness of the sky, resisting the bright and shiny constellations. They are neither ground, nor ether, nor starry heavens. They are some other realm of mediation – a floating realm. Books too, like solitary ice bergs, drift from their frozen glacial harbours into the open sea. I have lost all sense of whatever the evening demands. My heart – what does my heart matter? Melinda Vernon has written to me. She is Delegate of the Electoral Commissioner for the Division of Cunningham. She informs me that I am now enrolled to vote. This letter came to me on the 18th of December 2013, some three and half months ago. Now, folded in two places, slightly bent at one corner, it asserts itself differently. I no longer read it. It is simply visible as surface, as rising surface. Foam upon the ocean waves. Foam upon a dead still ocean. I can hear the buzz of work-bound cars. I hesitate, as always.