The colour of ghosts, torn bed sheets thrown over the living. They appear on stage in the air, when lights dim. But the colour of ghosts is polaroid, those teenage selves tangled up in blue. Ghosts of daybright and sunset-reddened buildings where we went to play, by weedy creeks and housing developments. Yellowing letters are ghosts, no longer yelling, their handwriting gracious ink from dear to lovingly. Programs with names from school and dress rehearsal, ghost typefaces. Ghost of a green car that took us past August ghosts of grey sea, thrilling with rain, along roads we will never revisit.