A man sat on a bench, the sunlight greeting his face. People pass him as he sits, observed and observing. The world around him running at it’s pace, one he may refuse. Too quick, or maybe just in a way he’s unsure of, but as he sits, his head sinks into his chest, unaware of the beauty created by his presence – his loneliness now observed and manifested as an object ignores his story, his history as he becomes the representation for others to meander and judge. His photograph now someone else’s meaning, his moment now someone else’s possession. He sits there, lonely, observing and being observed.