I step from the former Costcutter...
I step from the former Costcutter into the cloudless March morning. Water bottle in hand, I drift across the paved road. A car driven by someone I know swerves to avoid me.
I coast onwards towards Senate House. Blinking in my superannuated spectacles, I survey the world of white before me. Underfoot, a chalky carpet. In the distance, the topographical turmoil of the Arts Centre. It is bright.
Rising from the rug — more radiant than the rest — a snowy Christmas tree? A library water cup? A submerged white witch? A designer teepee? A racist cult member? An albino temporary traffic management device? A hipster’s carrot? A piece of minimalist party headwear?
It’s the Koan. It’s pointless — truly devoid of its point — and it’s unquestionably Warwick, but it’s ours and it probably shouldn’t fall.