In the early days of the pandemic, after the initial panic, I took a long walk through Victoria every evening. The pandemic meant no more road trips, not even Sunday drives. People reported intense dreaming. Psychologists explained that sleep was what we had for the open road. With the outer world so closed, our inner worlds flourished to compensate.

On my evening walks, I’d stumble upon the sculptural ghosts of cars and motorcycles under wraps. I never went looking for them; they’d simply appear. I ended up with dozens of photos of their ghostly shapes. Ultimately, they taught me about patience, about cooling one’s heels, and even accepting waiting as one’s new destiny. They appeared elegant in their resignation and confident in change, and they reminded me that no matter what happens, everything we have ever known will be history.