I dream of looking out a window. Coastal trees are on fire. Everything is catching around me. We must get out, the only important things people and animals, anything living. I impress on those nearby we must leave. I cannot find my footwear, it doesn’t matter. I wake up. It’s Melbourne, the sixth of January. Time to take down the cards, their miniatures in various styles, magi with gold boxes. Time to read them again quietly, a name a thought. Time to untie baubles from the homemade tree, back in their container, memories of the golden apples of the sun.