It is impossible to say "last week, this time, I was...", since I didn't have a Sunday last week.
The hole that has housed me the past seven days has a breathing terrace. More importantly, it has a vew. The spine of skyscrapers ending in the harbour bridge and the opera house. All laid out in an uninterrupted panorama.Flanking it are other terraces, much like the one I am on. With people on them, also enjoying the view, I suppose. And eating their dinner, like I am. Some wine. Some small talk. Smoking, maybe. Random church bells from somewhere that is not part of the view. I like rambling writing. Gives the illusion of being clever. I think on the whole, my ambitions far outpace my talents. I wonder how the real estate landscape would look like if the view ceased to be in the buyers' sights? The middle-of-things may become valuable. For all the talk on marginality, the periphery is still a privileged place to see the view. If only people could see that.
I had dinner for the first time on top of a hole. Tonight. Some stir-fry with rice. Enjoying the view. Eating out in the open that way, at sunset, surrounded by life scenes, I felt terribly alone. I am unsure if it was a good alone or a lonely alone. Only it wasn't unfamiliar. I suppose it is good to have travelled, and be travelling. Though I don't know if that makes me a traveller. Either way, so be it. I have this urge to fly a kite, the wind is perfect for that. I think of flying kites in the pols. How have I ended up here? What happens after an accident? I miss ___. I was going to write "you", but that has become problematic.