Night-time in early Winter in Port Adelaide. We’re bundled up in heavy jackets, headphones snuggled over our beanies, staring at the wall across the narrow street. A voice in our ears yells ‘I said go. Run! Run!’ and we run towards the wall, leaping up and throwing our bodies against it. We’re trying to break the building down, rock the foundations, start the revolution. I hit the wall­ and it hurts—and then I run back across the road to do it again.

It’s the middle of the day and I’m alone, five floors above Adelaide’s Rundle Street in an empty car park. I’ve been led here by words in my ears, text messages on my phone, little notes in little envelopes. As I look out over this view of the eastern end of my city, I’m asked to say out loud one word I think the city would like to hear, and watch it as it drifts over buildings and roads and out towards the hills.