Penniless and alone, I turned to questionable means to secure my nightly meals. Faces felt like mere impressions, every subject made the same through a particular verb of moral deprecation.
Living so, life began to resemble a Jack Vettriano painting; everything defined through shadow as much as it were by light. The good and the bad were immaculately preserved to memory as though life-like portraits that, though lauded for the display of such talent, left a bitter taste in the sour recognition that everything was at a standstill.
And I, supposedly the protagonist of my own story, couldn’t help but feel that every experience transpired as though I’d crept upon it by accident; a voyeur of my own intimacies.