It’s weird the things you notice in the middle of the night on a bus halfway between Ballarat and some small slumbering hamlet. Like the moon riding the horizon, becoming more orange the closer it gets. Oh, and the overwhelming bereftness as it sinks into the west. Goodbye, old moon, my only friend out here.

Once alone, what is visible are the things the bus headlights pick out. I spotted a sign for Jung Market and in the wild regions of my sleepless head imagined two for one Freudian Slips deals for sale scattered across  wooden trestle tables, reduced prices for Archetypes – all sizes, first come first serve, fresh editions of  the Collective Unconscious home delivered around Australia and handmade Synchronicity measuring devices. The town, subsiding into the night, kept oblivious, while I giggled insanely and quietly as the bus rolled on under the wide, blank sky.