Gazing at the figure lying outside, it’s hard not to be jealous of the comfort, the warmth and the complete absence of worry etched onto her peacefully resting face. It’s strange how, in a world with so much movement; the willows creaking in the wind like thin barky geriatrics, the sunlight flickering through the gaps in the leaves whenever I move my head, the birds darting around them like little feathery bullets, that my attention would be drawn to the one thing that didn’t want to move at all. A single individual, inky black hair illuminated by the Melbourne sunshine, unmoving and uncaring of the endless, hectic swarming of her surroundings. She probably doesn’t even realise how long she’s been lying there, enjoying the sun like I’m sure the thousands of workers and studiers around her would probably kill to be doing. How is it this one individual could have somehow managed to escape the tendrils of a busy, working, modern society so much that she sees no objection in completely wasting her time lying outside on a Tuesday afternoon? And yet it happened, while the world continues to work around her. I wonder if she realises that her little patch of paradise is just a dusty old sheet of tarp covering the unused, rusty barbecue on the back deck. The figure licks her paws and rolls over a second time.