Childhood memories of impossible things; and a stormwater drain that leads to another world.
Preview:
The streets take on a different character at night. During the day the roads seem purposeful: vehicles crowd the lanes transporting goods and school children. But as daylight fades and the houses bloom—however briefly—like lanterns, each doorway inevitably plunges towards its own particular darkness.
There is the droning of traffic somewhere, but not here. The sound lingers like a ghost recording, the radio of a distant neighbour. Context is stripped from the houses like the flaking paint and the overturned scooters resting in the tall grass. The footpath becomes an eerie mirror of long shadows that lengthen and fold in on one another like alien origami, all big heads and long fingers.
Read:
Michael Scott Hand 