The threadbare-carpet of the creaky, dark central hall leads me to the far end of the grand Queenslander, past doorways to bedsit lives of solitude, artistry and late-night diligence.
I greet a neighbour in the hall and ask how the performance, thesis or thankless-job is going.
Opening the door to my own little sanctuary, I trod the curling lino of the timeworn, hallway kitchenette, toss my bag on the battered silky-oak table and open the back wall of casement windows in the lounge.
I take in the breathtaking view of the city.
I may be poor but life is rich.
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