I’ve been alone for three days. Quarantine, for one more. No contact with anyone. I’m on the up and up, though I still feel weak from the flu. I’m on my 12th-floor balcony, Darling Harbor looking west. I’m watching the sun set behind the Blue Mountains. Music plays from inside, jazz, making its way out the door then getting carried off on the wind, it sounds like a memory I can’t grasp. I lean against the banister and look the five floors down to the rooftop garden of the next building. It is a lovingly crafted mirage in the heart of the urban jungle. Stone gardens, water features, a boardwalk weaving through Australian native plants. A garden so perfect it seems like higher powers have ripped up the pristine earth and placed it here, in a divine game of hide and seek. I hear a dump truck in the alley 12 floors below, it strains its hydraulic muscles, as it drops a heavy bin. From here it looks like a beetle, its orange work light rotates like an alien eye. I wonder what it could possibly be looking for. Then I look up. The stolen garden at my feet and the bright red burst sunset above the Mountains and I realise this might be what the truck’s eye is looking for, though it’ll never have the station to see it.