The sun had just sunk beyone any Melburnians line of 
vision, leaving the sky a sick, grey orange and fading. 
And fading . . . Small, even greyer blocks clutter this 
littered landscape smouldering like a dying fire. The 
bridge descends into the ask to be lost amongst the man 
made misery. Built out of want? Or out of greed? Westgate 
Bridge, were you built out of need? I ride this 
connection. I dont like what I see. I always swore I was 
going to bypass it all. And now look at me yeah Im lost 
in it. Heres your jacket. Heres your task. Heres your 
payslip for which you worked so hard. Heres a life that 
so many people wanted you to avoid. Avoid, avoid, avoid. 
Well, I think I found a reason why punk accepts success 
(yeah right). Yeah, I can see what a tragedy living for 
the weekend really is when all that I remember of Sunday 
morning is yawning. 8am on that Sunday and I haven't even 
sobered up yet. And it was raining . . . But it doesnt 
just rain here, no. The atmosphere has a grudge to hold 
all its own. And it shows on the faces of those who work, 
rest and breathe. And its arm has grown long indeed. Even 
now it reaches out and is coldly touching me. Im not so 
far away from where that bridge first hits the ground.