The theory of Time Travel.

The taste of my morning cigarette wears the flavour of an old dusty kiss, a kiss that I made when I was fourteen and women were still beautiful. My golden years, my prime time, my only love.

Finding my dream online while surfing the jobsites, I cry a distinct tear of pure joy, pack my shit up and head north. The way there is hot and sweaty, my shoulder is cracking and the skate just keeps carrying me forth.

Once in North Perth, Mount Hawthorne, I relax myself in a nearby park, just soaking in the midday sunlight. And with everything packt up tightly in my bag, I keep walking up the hill.