Contemplation.
The Photographer was tied to that word.
Thousands of hours he had spent contemplating. At first, when he considered himself a child, it had been enjoyable.
Contemplating ideas, colors, and compositions had been a joy to him.
Then, it grew stale. Contemplation became a source of his agony. It became a tiring habit.
Those emotions and that journey could be glimpsed through the eyes of the man as he stood smoking a humble pipe.
The full shot of his figure, leaning against the stone balustrade of the balcony, made him look lonelier. And the close-up made him look sadder.
There was little movement in his expression. Even though he wasn't, it felt like he was speaking.
The camera panned down to show his shadow. It was cast by an artificial sun, yet it wasn't fake. It was real.
It was sharp with clear borders.
Unlike its owner, it didn't feel as lonely. It wasn't sad. It wasn't tired.
