you are a faded haze of sirens and drifting voices while one of yours sits alone in a bright white room. There appear to be two of us here as spectators. The other, he checks his phone. There are two minutes everybody. At least as many cameras as people. Boom mikes. Mobiles to be switched off. People suddenly arrive from another space. It starts. The cameraman has nice red shoes with white stripes. They match the writing on the wall. His dangling suit sleeve is cut off to reveal the stump of half an arm. An Australian flag is taped to the stump, hangs limply. His face is painted with disinfectant. Assistant moving efficiently, everything proceeds in perfect time. Needle and thread are ready. There are pre-recorded groans from the adjacent space. We are all still looking at other people as they enter. Cameras multiply. The needle starts moving in and out of the flesh on his face. Blood runs down his face, his neck. Trying to be silent, he is groaning, it is uncertain whether the groans now from the other space are live, delayed, pre-recorded. Blood is streaming. I am asked for a piece of clean white paper and I give the only one I have. A phone rings. People here are: young, beautiful, transfixed. He mumbles something about being careful with his optic nerve. We are all eyes. He shakes incessantly. I don't think I have seen anyone in this much pain. What looks like a businessman walks in. He provides directions for the needle. His face is swabbed. Why so many people still arriving. Face slowly contorted, still talking. Tighter. The watchers watch the watchers, too. People look in from the street, continue walking past. Pointing to where the needle goes next. This pen feels savage, complicit. More females than males. The groans from the next room are louder than those in this one. Dislocated. Some leave. Enough. Get the idea. Why am I still self-conscious? Another phone. Flashes. Watching via video display screen. At one remove. Everyone has a camera. Voices, too loud, outside. Sewing finished, blood everywhere, film still rolling. Get on a ladder to get a better angle. Draw it: look into your pencil case and find the right one. Fucking phones, one after the other. It will be over before it's over, interest dying off, just like the war. Like the war. People realise en masse, suddenly: nothing new or exciting is happening, here, anymore. He sits eyes closed face mutilated and punctured and tied up. I have a better view now. I suppose I would look: bored. Are we waiting for something? More pens than cameras now, indicating the death of the event, history written live. People still drawing, he is an exciting visual object. All pain, serenity, composure. What does he think about. A new environment for new thoughts. I feel cheated when my view is obstructed, even where there is nothing happening. A boy looks at me, clearly stoned. A buzzing camera leaves, finished. He remains motionless. Maybe we wonder: when will he urinate. There is always something to wait for, something to happen next. He doesn't meet the eyes of the audience. Pictures are taken of drawings. Two removes. And so we are getting farther away, already. Distancing. These words now at three removes. I watch a photographer move around the space. Eyes follow. Up close for a close-up. Advance Australia Fair. I fight the brute physical urge to yawn, hungry. I distrust this man with his two cameras. He doesn't take photos of my words. People leave, go do something fun. Words brighter than blood light the wall behind. A couple enter, cuddle, observe. Nothing happens, plenty of time to line up a shot, find the best vantage point. It is tiring, he will cramp, eventually, what goes on inside, what goes on outside. Groans continue looping from the next space, people thinning, flashes continuing, a brief visit from happy children, more tripods than people. I am fairly certain some people visit without reading the words on the wall. Setting up for a special kind of photo now, what kind, a portrait. Australia where are you Australia you are at football and dinner and work and on the freeway Australia you are drunk in pubs and you are locking your front door Australia right now you are hosting a barbecue Australia who is invited Australia, Australia, do you recognise your name when I call you Australia do you recognise me where are you Australia one of your lost children sits bloody on a chair and you are watching television Australia get off the lounge Australia come home Australia your mirror has turned into a screen and you have fallen asleep Australia your voice is not your own and I am having nightmares Australia you do not even look through these windows long enough to see what is on the other side Australia if you looked close enough or far enough Australia your reflection is in here Australia where are you? Your portrait is being taken right here in this room and you are absent.