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	<title>Last Day</title>
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		<title>Last Day</title>
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		<title>Last Day</title>
		<link>http://lastday5.wordpress.com/2008/11/30/last-day/</link>
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		<pubDate>Sun, 30 Nov 2008 14:46:28 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>lps84</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Hypertext fiction]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[I step out on to the pavement. I&#8217;m used to the flow of suits along Collins Street, the five o’ clock flurry of people striding to Flinders station. But today I am early, and it is quiet. I glance back to the office. Every time I pass this building, I&#8217;ll think of the times watching [...]<img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=lastday5.wordpress.com&amp;blog=5694927&amp;post=1&amp;subd=lastday5&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" />]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1305/761025158_d3a1b41c63.jpg?v=0"><img class="alignleft" title="Melbourne rain" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1305/761025158_d3a1b41c63.jpg?v=0" alt="" width="285" height="215" /></a></p>
<p>I step out on to the pavement. I&#8217;m used to the flow of suits along Collins Street, the five o’ clock flurry of people striding to Flinders station. But today I am early, and it is quiet.</p>
<p>I glance back to the office. Every time I pass this building, I&#8217;ll think of the times watching workless Friday afternoons drift by; I&#8217;ll smell the lunchtime coffee machine, and remember that I can no longer go inside. I wait <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/i-wait-at-the-lights/">at the lights</a>.</p>
<p>I walk past the cafes with their half-drunk cappuccino’s wobbling on empty tables. Cars drive past on their way to lunchtime bars and business meetings. The corporate clock ticks on without me. Now I am just a <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/suit-in-the-rain/">suit in the rain</a>, wondering what to do next.</p>
<p>I head to the station. No crowd to guide me now. I look up at the scrolling board and set foot on platform three with five minutes to spare. I sit <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/on-the-end-bench-waiting/">on the end bench, waiting</a>.</p>
<p>After eight minutes my train arrives. I allow an elderly Greek man to step off, and then search for my seat. There are plenty to choose from, but I look for one without an empty bottle or burger carton, away from the drunk man perching at the front of the <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/carriage/">carriage</a>. I sit down as the doors beep shut. The train pulls me away from the city, away from work. This is my last day.</p>
<p>I watch through the window as the train writhes its way round the inner city. The carriage in front of me bobs up and to the side. I look at the names scratched into the white plastic of <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/the-seat/">the seat</a> to my right. Darrell and Kate. Darrell and Kate. Darrell and Kate. The train slows once more and Croxton Station arrives.</p>
<p>I stand and press the button. The doors slide open and I step off into the rain. I walk along the platform to the exit, where an <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/aboriginal/">Aboriginal</a> woman is sheltering. I wait for the train to pass and the gate to lift. I cross the tracks and make my way towards High Street. Houses stand either side of me, their owners still at work in the city. This is my <a href="http://lastday5.wordpress.com/this-is-my-last-day/">last day</a>.</p>
<p>The rain persists as I reach the house. I lift the keys from my pocket, open the door, and step inside. I&#8217;ll be seeing more of this place now.</p>
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			<media:title type="html">lps84</media:title>
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			<media:title type="html">Melbourne rain</media:title>
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