EXTRACT: We are walking down ACDC Lane and two thoughts strike me. I’m not
actually struck. I’m not hit. I’m not hurt.
One: The smell of Flinders Street Station. The lifetime of it. The lives within it,
around it and through it. The aromas of expectation. Florists. Fast food vendors.
Buskers. Buskers in bunkers. They have built their own nests but they blur into each