The road to Mildura

Sinews of cotton, the clouds reach sparsely through skies we flew through days ago.

Now we drive down roads wedded to the land by trains of purple weed; pattison's curse is a veil that marks the passing miles.

Mildura is an wooden chest upturned. Objects from several eras spill out and land awkwardly next to eachother. The Victorian post office and Officeworks whisper of the same yearning for communication, of paper and pens, and words written for posterity.

We spend most of our time telling stories, shyly proffering wisdom like a bird held on the palm of our hands, whose conviction we test before letting go.

An air of reassurance prevails. There is something comforting in the shared journey, an alliance of sorts.

Tomorrow we drive to the coast.