Friday night is for living life way out on the edge, ditching all the week's baggage into the funeral pyres that go staggering down George St to the sea after falling off the ivy (lately security calls them "Russian meteors"), hooting and crackling, warming your hands as every slightly strained moment sloughs off the five monolithic workdays, leaving just the clean standing stones shedding shadows off onto the plain.
Friday night is for dancing along the boundary between sleep and fury, painted in debates about the ethics of giving Enemies a minute of your time, painted in "milk" sprayed from a Rube Goldberg Up&Go collaboration kickstarted by an Olympic longjumper, painted in pwdre ser sprayed from the ducts of the Black Ride-on Mower, which emerges only deep in moonless night to seed the bowl of Cadigal Green.
Friday night is for throwing stolen passports through the bedroom windows of children, with tucked-in cuckoo-chips wriggling hopeful zero-days aimed at a future drained of firmware updates, and sharing sweet dreams with the real babies, of calculators computing calculators computing calculators...
and you, never realising your faraday umbrella was out of charge the whole time.
(This blog entry was generously supported by 2.210739197207334e+23, wheel throwing, enableContentRecovery 1, and the noscript dialog disappearing from Waterfox because I pressed a button somewhere and I don't know which one. As always, thanks for your help.)