As I look at my pictures, I realise they show little understanding. Pictures of people who I don’t know and will never know, and who, in general, have much of what I realise is missing from me: company, happiness, comfort, fulfilment, presence, who are needed and have a role in society and other people’s lives. Pictures of gestures, behaviours, places I superficially survey, signs I fetishise as abstract and unreadable. I stand on the outside. The only means I have to avoid disappearing is to take photographs, to intrude in lives. It serves no function, yet keeps me alive. I notice people and immortalise them. Nobody notices me. I have no role in anyone’s life. At the end of all this, I am aware that the more I see, the more it reinforces who I am, and how my life is awkward, problematic, unfulfilling and isolated. Conversation is more rewarding, yet this is fleeting and difficult, with a language barrier, and through the fact that I am a demanding conversationalist. My cynicism of human behaviour must be some kind of envy. Who am I to judge? Who would rather be me? I would rather be someone else, but who? I would rather have another life, but what? Is that what this is all about?