Telephones   Those upturned rectangles, cramped red huts neighbourhoods once so much depended upon now stand deserted, their small square panes of glass scratched, cracked or shattered like the worries and excitements they once briefly contained and conveyed. Hundreds of thousands of words lie in their receivers, the greetings, the invitations, the laments, the calls for help that hung on the roulette wheel of their dials, or were stubbed into their small, desperate levers, access to the wider world that a community once queued up to gain.   Now they’re left for small, data-laden packs stashed in the pocket individually—a…