There are towns across the world, thousands in number, that have never had their name inscribed upon a map. The conduits of history have moved around them, the rivers have not touched them. They have been ignored. There are towns and peoples and cultures that will never so much as be described in a book. There are farmers who in three generations have not wandered beyond the nearest hills. There are, in Rory Stewart’s words, places in between, and they will not be remembered. And here we sit in western suburbia, where the lights never go out, at the fastest spinning edge of the carousel, where everything is new and everything glitters with potential. We, most definitely, will be remembered. We will be remembered for not helping them.