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glen iris, a park, 5.45am in the twilight, near-silent
two pre-dawners are kissing, passionately
the strict routine of the twilight has not yet begun: the procession of briefcases the ritual of de-caf lattes, soj milk and short blacks and the rushed rituals once the first train has opened its jaw -
the clubbers have gone a street eerily free of traffic the wind whips over us, the lovers ignore the chill hands and mouths work feverishly following the rules of twilight.
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