Day after day you walk that street to Piedmonte for cigarettes and red wine , day after day you see the same faces , shapes, colours of the day , the cool manufactured types that haunt the cafes, pubs, books open, newspapers spread, an artist is pencil drawing on a napkin, a circus performer is practising her firestick juggling, there goes a beat up something or other, a Porsche, and the light is something between the bardo’s , that light that exists for the dead who have not yet been processed and there I was walking to the supermarket past ear plugged humans oblivious to that plane that was about to obliterate their comfortable world of smug left leaning tofu munching freaks, suddenly a bush , three feet if at all, an opera was happening , I stopped felt the orchestra of birds allowing my hair to stand on end just for a second, evening becoming electric, light piercing into the being time , cars, faces, buildings obliterated, no roads or humans, everything gone except the eternal 6pm of that moment, Fitzroy had become some sort of Blake vision, Wordsworth and Whitman were laughing and there on that simple walk to the supermarket I realised how beautiful ordinary is.