Innocence doesn't exist here anymore, not even for the young. No, only dead eyes stare from photographs taken on cheap cameras by drunk uncles.
Standing in the doorway to the Custom House you silently mouth a plea for small change. This is not your regular spot and your recent close shave has gone. The waterside is busy, but you are not, and slowly you are becoming invisible. Eventually, you will disappear leaving only a shadow in each doorway of this street.
Note.
The shadow of a man, each day up from the Sally down the docks. Into town. Stillness. In the doors of the Western and Echo.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
