Black is Black

Reaching into a wardrobe to find a black hoodie when all I, essentially, have are black jumpers and black tops, is almost impossible, let me tell you. It is like looking into a cave. This is where infinity lives, I thought, a black hole hidden there amongst the black fibres, as I fumbled around not really being able to differentiate where one garment finished and another started.

Goodness me, I thought, as I fumbled in my pocket for my phone so I could cast some light on the situation.

How do all those hoity-toity girls cope (the sporty Pru and Trudes) who spend their lives in active wear. No wonder they have to run places, to run off the frustration of getting dressed in the morning.

Or, Ozzy Osbourne, for that matter. At his age? With his eye sight?

What about Emos? (I’m still not really sure what an Emo is, so there you go)

I giggled to myself. Should I get myself a bishop-sleeve cape and train a crow to sit on my right shoulder. One caw for yes, one caw for no, three caws for danger, four caws for Satan's breath.

I wondered if bats may just fly out as I lift some of the garments apart?

Perhaps I should set up a coffee shop in there, as Melbournians would be bound to flock to it.

Is this my alter, I thought, as I stood there with a wardrobe handle in each hand? Should I sacrifice something…? Maybe my cynicism. Ha ha.