Finishing the loop of Carlisle St, Emile telling me of Sinch, the graffiti artist who died riding outside a train, Balaclava his local area, old tags and pieces by his brother still covering the suburb. Pause Bar, where I got drunk on red wine with Bonnie more than once, when both of us were in town. The art on the railway bridge, there since the ’80s. Less change here than other parts of town, still open-mouthed in shock at what’s happened to South Yarra, which I saw passing through on the train. A crane low on the skyline building where the service station used to be, next to the fruit and vegetable shop with the deli out the back, my regular, now a 24-hour gym (the old hardmen place across the road still there though), a crane propping up another of those shit apartment blocks that looks like it would fold under the slightest tremor. Ten years — more than ten years since the last time I was in Balaclava, my home in Melbourne if I ever had one.