Three years on. Free at last to move alone, to disappear. The flow and lock of breathing limbs, the healing class of Pac Hoc high above Chinatown in Haymarket Sydney 1984, and the long wandering begins. No connection, no destination as the landmarks diminish west of Isa, Barry Caves and on to the Three Ways, empty caravan parks, the highway up through Katherine to the Timor Sea, and the dreams intensify. The disorientation of sudden limitless possibilities, the dissection of duty vs. a divergent path with a beautiful and blameless lover, ain’t nothing sadder than an obsolete address book, how some will always be sooner or later the cigarette butt in the can of beer, opera masks, dreaming of Rosemary, dream I can fly, dreamed about the politics of love, plotting commercial and business ideas, rambles about Aristotle, St Augustine and Thomas Aquinas arguing in a Northern Territory pub with 100k to go to Darwin, $3.00 remaining and a half a tank of petrol. Dreams of study, pressure and failure, a silver trumpet in a hock-shop window, the last cigarette before we die, nursery rhymes, ants’ nests like tombstones for a thousand miles west of Julia Creek, and on the Barkly Highway a goods train coming out of the sunset with red and green lights on the guardsvan and red sky clear through the windows, slowly crushing locusts on the railway track.