One day I’ll forget all this, so that is why I write.

It’s a 36-degree Tuesday in Perth, February 2020, ideal conditions for sipping a $7 iced oat latte from a mushy paper straw and lamenting seemingly urgent life decisions.

The inside of this living room looks exactly like I imagined it – a terrace house seeded with abandoned cigarettes inside terracotta mosquito pools.

Another empty weekend for an unconcerned 11-year-old. A whole house of one’s own, spent staring blankly out the kitchen window while I’d write my little poetry.