My images are seldom what they seem.

Its late at night. Its Autumn. She sits on her terrace, eyes glazing over traffic twenty three floors below. Her hands curl around a generous mug of black coffee. A cigarette lies smoking in the ashtray, threatening her shawl that has fallen to the ground.

The terrace door swings open, a hand is gently placed on her bare shoulders.

"I want to be alone today.
But you're allowed in.
Yes, you.
Promise you'll be nice."

I want to be alone today.
But you're allowed in.
Yes, you.
Promise you'll be nice.