Saturday night festival of explosions, fireworks and low-flying fighter jets scamming the river. I was standing behind five dark rows of people. Festive. Restive. Everybody chatting. The city stood lit up behind its bridge, then the fireworks started. Without hesitation the crowd bloomed like a field of poppies, dozens of tiny, high-held screens. Disbelieving, I looked around. Everywhere people were holding up their phones at arm’s length like you would hold a small child to show them a marching band. It was impossible to watch the world without seeing it onscreen and multiplied, as though we were standing in a broadcast instead of our lives. A girl near me held up her phone for so long that when the fireworks died the blokes behind her asked, “Aren’t your arms getting tired?” She tucked the screen in to her chest and began seamlessly typing and scrolling. No pause. “Imagine there’s no heaven,” I thought. “There was, and there still is, but who cares.” Watching her mouth tuck itself in at the corner I translated, out of the dim bitterness of my heart: At Riverfire. Amazeballs, you shd see it. Luv u Brisbane.