The tower was locked (its future being chained to the mast like a breeze crossed with water from the past tense (that immense wall of sound’s collage (its anagram eye, loveless wireless) abstract but intact. Your childhood lies like party lines populated by ghosts (some Fenian, others pulled from the CSIRO telephone directory. The first email (never sent cced Gaia but bounced. So it goes … (that manual exchange inside a powerhouse (a museum exhibit etched in charcoal rides the lightning (killing composers, developing in still-life. Meanwhile, father’s crystal set gathers dust in a council tip. The volume & tuning knobs had fallen off anyway, replaced by one cent coins (also obsolescent. A smell it gave off when “live” could trigger memories you never knew you had back then, in the then when events unfolded in a logical fashion, proceeding to their happy ending, or a lesson (the Masonic Temple’s front yard littered with broken glass, dead weeds (ah that crazy guy who ran screaming down the street (that joke about Oddfellows isn’t so funny now, in his aftermath, the grey dawn of dead things screwed into the sky (that line of furrows from the ground wavered across his forehead, an object of ridicule allowed one last laugh (surprised to end up on someone’s thrown-away camera (your soul locked inside a mangled memory chip (just an SD card away from rapture (or was it repatriation? as shards of laughter escaped from the abandoned sun memorial (a sound came out of the blue sky like, as if from nowhere (a disembodied voice he thought he’d heard on the antique television set describing Vietnam was God (turned out it was the government (calling him up.