I am looking out the window onto a cool and leafy world - Bourke St is fizzing in a coat of post-heat spittle, sweating out the grime of the thousand footfalls that befell her today. She hushes, swishes, pushes trams through her weary body, walked over, walked over, endlessly, always. And I sit in a pocket of her torso breast height, most likely, wishing the particularly woeful walkers well, and meaning it, before some smarmy smartarse parading through my scene sparks my wrath, my all-seeing, all-searing censure. It's these villains who break my alliance with the man on the street, these who turn me into a tyrant, triggering my desire for fire, or maybe I'll send a flood?
Who could be my Noah?
I'll need a good swimmer, a good rower. Someone who can weather a storm, a real goer. Maybe the Sudanese man out the front of the Red Violin, I'm sure he's seen worse times than these. Yeah, him. Definitely not the stumbling stiletto'd staggerer, styled to the nines in the finest Supre` had to offer. Arks get rickety, and she's finding it tricky enough trying to stand on land. No, she's not my man. I think I'll stick with the one from Sudan.
Right, so, what's my plan?
Tell him what I'm feeling? Make him understand the situation? The way things are? And ask him if he's willing to be my star? My chosen one? No one'd turn it down, surely. Not once they hear abut my plans for Bourke, no way. They'd set to work on an ark straight away, they'd get all the animals picked and they'd pray for my guidance, my mercy, and maybe the sparing of their friends and their family. And I'd grant that, for sure! I mean, what are gods for?
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