Nithing – by Clayton O’Toole

… He lived in the inert dark between night and early morning. Things that had been snug in the afternoon light were cold to him now. The house was a void corralled by clean, white, modern lines. There was furniture; a thin TV. Nooks clung in clusters to the walls, filled with picture frames and souvenirs and little baked-clay monsters. From the kitchen you could see the paddock. From the table you could see the paddock. From the wrong end of the lounge room you could see the paddock …