Grief worker and author Francis Weller writes that if we are to be transformed by our grief, our stricken hearts require the container of communal ritual, a village of holding hands and keening mouths to participate in and metabolise our grief.

As I leave the open field of the Domain, the botanical gardens looming behind the exit gate, I am reminded of Weller’s insight. A young man wrapped in denim, laying with his head rested against his partner’s chest, stares at the night sky, forlorn and exhausted. At the Art Gallery, a barefoot woman splayed on the marble bank of a wishing well rests waiting for a taxi.