On another slender footpath by another major road, another paused electric bike supports another pair of girls. Their bodies are twisted. Their heads are turned.

On the platform at Chatswood station, an elderly woman twirls her bright pink walking stick on a string.

The brownie girls are in sync, each with a pointer finger held vertical, encircled with gold, etching a circle in the air. Not together, though; one merely confirms the other.

In Frenchs Forest, half-turned lattice squares form diamonds on a paling fence.

Close to the Roseville Bridge a pipe crosses the river. It has stanchions of its own, and big concrete footings shaped like boats.

Two girls, living proof of the hours they’ve spent getting ready, share a packaged brownie on the bus. One has long blonde hair flowing free, and a perfect set of fingers raised symbolically to hide her mouth as she chews. The other has dark hair pinned aloft and three graduated, golden earrings tapered to the lobe; she brazenly waves a corner of the brownie as she speaks.

At a church behind a garage and a fence, a girl steps out of a mural and examines the ground.

A tiny black stroller stands on a side street, precisely at the footpath’s end. Something colourful is balanced on the roof, and behind, a dad is delving into a plastic bag.

A paused, wobbling, electric bike takes off and zips across Pittwater Road. It turns into the park and glides parallel to the road, in silhouette. Two thin girls, two fat tyres, and a milk crate tied to the back.

A small cocker spaniel cringes away in its harness, pulling, leaning, filled with dread and chained to a gossiping human. They never listen. Why do humans never listen?

In a cafe on the concourse at Ashfield Station, an old string bean of a man bends comfortably backwards.

At Town Hall Station a ramp slams in through the doorway and an ancient woman ascends with a walking frame. Near the top she falters and goes into reverse, but a pair of hands is there to catch her.

Feet thump past, oblivious.

A hanging garden appears near Redfern Station, where lush weeds and clumps of bracken space themselves thoughtfully across the brickwork.

Dead vines on brickwork by the tracks: a sooty place mat glued to the wall; a grubby wicker curtail left hanging.

The wind tears through Collaroy. A woman dressed in black stands calmly with her umbrella, waiting for the lights to change, but she is all whipping, snapping trouser legs and jacket.

At Central Station, a woman reverses out with a baby carriage, in which a child with golden curls sits upright and alert. A walking preschooler follows, holding on, then a man with a toddler wrapped around his head: he leans back in through the doorway, helping a slow old woman onto the platform and, at last, a slower old man.

Each grown-up has charge of a suitcase on wheels.

At the back of the carriage, a loud Slavic conversation lapses into English: You don’t talk. I am with you if I know what you do. A burst of Eastern European and then, softly: Okay.

A mother and grown-up daughter go through the barriers at Wynyard and stop, uncertain where to go. Each points in a different direction and follows her own finger.

A girl on the B1 peers round a man across the aisle, to a second girl who meets her gaze and giggles. Her eyes sparkle. She has headphones, and a highlighted printout on her lap.