The autistic clerk who attends late-night bebop gigs down the arse-end of a cobblestone laneway then sleeps in a van by the park. The scuffed one whose hair is overdue for a wash and whose glasses are scratched and finger smudged. The one who wears duffle coats and hand-knitted vests and licks the wooden spoon. The chaos gardener and lapsed weeder who eats leftovers off strangers’ plates in cafés and always pays in cash. The subterfuge with moth holes who steals fair-trade chocolate from Woolworths and leaves post-it notes on badly parked cars. Who turns off footage of bombed hospitals and rocks like an infant on a hand-loomed rug, sourced, according to the dealer, from the most primitive tribes of Iran. Who remembers the quiet patina on her mother’s loafers long after her mother has gone. The louche-laced one who walks with her right foot in the gutter, sprig of Silver Wattle in hand, and only the vaguest of plans. Who trips and face-plants fearlessly into the lovely dirt. Who always provides an orthogonal response to a straightforward question. Who cannot see past the spelling mistakes in the instructions. The one who is sworn off social media from now until death. Who has a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and thinks it is an asset. Who understands that identity is slippery, not a Pinterest board. Who refuses to pathologise every human tic and tendency. Who lives and feels and dies resolutely, unashamedly, mad flesh, sweat and desire. The homo sapiens who is more than an inefficient robot. Who sits every morning on the front verandah and greets every passing dog that lifts its leg on the gatepost. Who recognises another animal when they meet one.