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The whispering that comes in the darkness subsides quiescently with the rising sun. The sum total of silence is to say nothing in the dawn, yet there is much to speak of, much to be said, much that will never be said. If now is the time to say nothing—be it ever so late—then so be it. In the cool, crisp air of an autumn dawn, there is clarity—clarity of vision, clarity of thought, a clear remembered image of something that happened, something unpleasant. It is all too clean and crisp to bear the pain in the frightfully bright light. Better that it be left behind with the whispering, but it is imperative and won’t be left behind. Only tears can be shed, memory is silent, silence presses on every thought. And the silent, glassy sea—subdued by the early westerly breeze—is so clear that the eyes of truth hide in a place so profound that it releases nothing but its own reflection.

Here then stands a small motley group of people whose only commonality is their want to be here, need to be here. So here they wait impatiently for the arrival of those who are not yet late. Hot in the light, cold in the shade, they freeze in the wind or burn under the torturous, relentless rays of the sun—a conflict too confusing to understand for all except those who are born on this soil. The Australian sun bites, even in winter.