Norseman Nights

So the stab in the back arrived, but the pain didnt spread until it was all over I suppose. Eighteen months, eighteen fucking months of dedication to a tiny little road house hundreds of miles from anywhere and all i have to show for it is a shitty relocation to a town even the locals dont like. Norseman began life as a gold mining town, continues life as a gold mining town, though the mining seems to have very little to do with the town. Most of the shops are boarded up and falling down, there's a little supermarket and a hardware store. and then, right on the edge of town, there's the BP, where I am now employed. I stay in the motel, run by the same people, eat at the BP and don't ever seem to drink. My evenings spent sitting, lonely, cold, outside the door to my room, sucking back cancer sticks and listening to music softer than a girl I once met. A song, a memory, reminds me, but while at first it caught me off guard, I know realise the message hidden in the lyrics, hidden in her eyes when we sat together sharing tunes. But now she's gone, and I'm in Norseman, Balladonia just another bad memory. The benefits are nice, mobile reception, wireless broadband, it's good, makes a bloke feel apart of this spinning world. But no more bush bashing, no more shooting rabbits, no more target practise, snake charming, digging, building, blowing shit up. These people around me are strange, weird, sober, gay and crazy, real people, and I just dont get them, struggle at times to keep normal conversation flowing. These Norseman Nights are nothing like I expected, but the peace is comforting, the sobriety, sharpening. The technological advances exhilarating.