2026/2046 the man from Melbourne
There was a man in Tokyo, a man from Melbourne, strong as a hundred-year-old oak. We spend hours once, walking, talking, staying in silence. It was soft and strangely nice. We wrote to each other for years. I loved his photographs — black-and-white Polaroids, as though they had surfaced from another time, another life. We were supposed to meet again in Hong Kong. I never went to the rendezvous. Where has life taken him? In what distant country does he live now? Could he still be waiting for me somewhere in Hong Kong? In the Room 33, or perhaps 2046 — the one with the red light trembling across green walls that was made just for us. His memory remains. Something powerful, like all the things that might have been
