f e b r u a r y

Psychotic

She is truly, madly psychotic

On Monday she is a blast of hot dry scorching air, sunny and blinding, burning all who dare to step out to approach her. She beckons all to the beach, luring ennui-affected office workers into the deceptively beautiful open skies, only to sear-dry their skins into charred crisps akin to fried beetroot chips.

On Tuesday she is a flood unleashed, haemorrhaging her sleeting, ruthless rain.
Her hot breath turns frigid, and she slides her cold clammy fingers insidiously under all layers of clothing, chilling through flesh into the bone.

She is the perfect epitome of manic-depression.

Who is she. . . she is Melbourne in two-thousand-and-five