A small town in the 1940s. We're paused here, slightly sweating, on a route march from the future. The houses are all wearing down, decrepit from a failed decade, and yet their window glass is polished. I recognise each house in detail, can almost name the families, but know too what the years have wrought. This one, that one. Weatherboard or brick or fibro, torn down in a day or two. A sort of mall and blocks of flats rise up to take their places. A few survive, cobwebbed and empty. Some are lovingly refurbished. The weather though is not much changed. The lawns and yards are no less parched, their fences still askew. A childhood has retrieved its sharpness while vanishing entirely. I know we're in a dream. But that will tell us nothing. A small town of the 1940s; war still throbbing to the north. And yet, despite the blackout code, its windows strangely shine.