He followed, crunching the big dry leaves. He was thinking of time and change, of how, one morning when he must have been quite small, he had discovered time, lying in the grass with his eyes closed against the sun. He was counting to himself. He counted up to sixty, and thought: That is a minute. Then he thought: It will never be that minute again. It will never be today again. Never.
He would not , in all his life, make another discovery so shattering.
He thought now: I am six years and two weeks old. I will never be that old again.
He thought, often, of himself, of who he was, and why. He would repeat to himself his name, until the syllables meant nothing, and all names seemed absurd. He would think: I am Australian, and wonder why. How had he come to be himself, living in this town?
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