You walk out of the airport terminal and into the fragrant miasma of perfectly reasonable expectations you had of yourself, that you never lived up to. The climate of Australia is determined by all the things you said and did that you can never live down, even if no one else remembers or cares. The continental land mass is made up of the smugness of expatriatism which is a very thin layer of topsoil over exile. The bottom line about this harsh, gorgeous environment is that if you hadn’t been such a gigantic asshole, you could have stayed.

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