Above us the moon hangs in the deep black as if a lover has opened a window. Beneath us flames glide in the Yarra: green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing. Beside us a neighbour is in his workshop; his saw snores like a dog circling the house waiting to come in. Around us the dust people are sharing our space. Surreptitiously, they had crept in; a couple at first, then fifty, five hundred, a hundred thousand. Inside us, though, a mirror at the end of a string is turning: clockwise, anti-, back, and again — e n d l e s s l y.