Thirty years ago in my late 20s on many lonely cold winter nights I walked the desolate streets of the city fringe. Down narrow sparsely-lit alleys with dark dirty store-fronts, ominous warehouses, and desperate characters. A salty dampness and the silhouettes of sea-faring hulks on Sydney harbor drawing me into an enveloping angst. There was mystery, an aching feeling of some unfathomable loss, of poetry.
Today those streets are bright, lined with trendy restaurants, exclusive warehouse conversions, soul-less showrooms for funky furniture, and expensive cars. No mystery, no angst, and no poetry.