On Tram 48, running from Balwyn North to Victoria Harbour Docklands, where all the footy bums come on-board, enroute to the stadium, there is one who has a large-screen cellphone in which she uses to write, from stop to stop. She touches upon the alphabets, without obvious hesitation, quickly, her thumbs tip-toeing across the keyboard, articulating a concentration, like fire. Her inspiration is inspiring. When you look again, you realise she is wearing thick, concave eye-glasses, that she holds the mobile device unusually close to her face, as blocks of prose stream along, continuous and effortless, before her. I hate to think what further damage this activity has on her sight, and find myself liking her even more, an admiration for her determination overwhelming the intrigue I had had at first. At the end of the ride, she switches off her work, takes out a white cane that she extends, before making her way out on to the platform, her left hand gripping the manuscript, firmly.