Something is up in Kings Cross. There are more rough looking, scar faced people in Nike trainers flanking Darlinghurst Road than usual today. They appear to be looking for something as they speak of who said what and who owes who. We are but ghosts in the zeitgeist, among no danger, providing ones own business is mind.
An aboriginal man in discussion at a bus stop snaps his hands to his chin retreating backwards as a 6’2 caucasian brute ascends upon him from what seemed like a black hole in the middle of the road. One covets the finesse with which the offensive lunges off his back foot towards the target, certainty in his glare. His pants are pulled up high with a white shirt tucked into them, the overlocking on a singlet underneath helps illustrate this characters jail ability. I am desperate to push record, but thats not minding my own business is it.
What’s so special about a Wednesday? Is this heightened felonious energy just coincidence? Or has the intermittent focus on this subculture subconsciously motivated it to impersonate itself?