Having read that a meteor shower was taking place tonight until 3.45am, I ventured from the office at around 1.30am to get a vile sammich from the service station over the road and to view the spectacle myself. I love meteor showers.

Predictably, as I stepped outside with Rob Dougan's "Instrumental" trickling through my headphones, I looked up to see that the sky held nothing but a thin layer of cloud, glowing with the dull red of city light pollution.

In that moment I missed Caloundra. I was fourteen the night my parents woke my brother and I at 3am, bundled us into the car and drove us down to Moffat Beach, where we sat on the grass among the pine trees with a handful of other intrepid coast dwellers. We watched a meteor shower twinkle-burn in over the ocean. I remember how dark and cold the night was, and the roar of the waves; I remember the clarity of the night - the fixed stars burning so bright white they almost hurt the eyes - and the delicacy of the meteor-streaks in the sky.

I like night shift because I like this city best at night. That's when I feel the most comfortable. I like people, but I like them as individuals, not as 'humanity', not as a nameless mass. At night this place feels post-apocalyptic, and when humans become a rare commodity, suddenly everything they do matters. It's only an illusion, but it makes me feel good.

Tags: science