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"Harold Street" by Paul Dufficy

They are with a friend of mine in our share house but sometimes we find ourselves alone and we talk about both our worlds. I have never spoken to another human being in this way before: a single word hovers (they use that word too!) then darts and weaves about an idea like a night insect about a flame; yet a sentence, a conversation, seems instantaneous. Sitting on that worn green lounge I had found on the side of the road and cradling late-night tea in chipped mugs I tell them everything, leaving nothing out, and fall in love.

Paul Dufficy writes about music and travel. To make ends meet he runs a walking tour business in Sydney which to date has been quite unsuccessful.

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