The picture on the wall of a man is not a man but a boy, and the brushstrokes are a deception and the image is nothing but imagination; not my imagination with its spilled paint but the unsteady hand of creation draughting me in amongst all of its chaos. It is a year cast as a solitary day. And I know to eternity I am just a solitary lifetime. I am a year turned into a day. I am the crumb of bread brushed from the table to the floor in preparation for the next diner. I am nothing, and yet whilst I am alive, as something I am spectacular. It is overwhelming to feel as though you are both the eye of a needle in a haystack and the eye at the centre of a storm all at once.