The underpath leads under the whole Central station in Sydney, to bus stops, Immigration and further on, to TAFE and a path to Darling Harbour. Buskers found a refuge in the tunnel, including a clairvoyant. There are pictures from the railways' life. It's just completely and not interesting underpath. I came through it probably hundred times. And now it's haunting me, a memory this close to hallucination.

I don't know why it is. All of a sudden, my memories of Australia became more colourful, sounds are stronger and they are in widescreen. Sometimes I have to shake myself out of stupor because my brain is somewhere else than my eyes. The memories are coming at least once a day and they grab me with such ferocity I become absent-minded.

Splashing of the fountain at Potts Point. Tram rails running to Box Hill. The taste of kebab on Smith Street, Fitzroy. Loud cackling of my former classmate. The look to the sea from Hornby Lighthouse. tourists in St Kilda. My last desperate look at the sea I was saying goodbye to.

It's strange. My memories have always been somewhat vague, more like data stored in the memory. These colourful large pictures with smell, sound and emotions are scaring me a bit. Maybe because they are tempting me to lose myself in them and to ignore everything else around me.

Well, once again something not available in English. Sorry, it just happens this way. Anyone willing to translate my short stories?

Yours, Grace Poole is going to stage once again. This time in Prešov city. Not in English, though.