◉ 003 | The Man on Elizabeth

He was lying on Elizabeth.
Not moving. Eyes closed.
A scarf in green and gold folded near his head—
the word  A U S T R A L I A  wrapped around it.
Collected cigarette butts.
Filters. Rolling papers,
with nothing left to roll.
A bottle of water.
Half full.
Or half empty.
Everything placed with care.

I raised the camera.
His eyes opened—
red, heavy, glazed.
No move. No blink.
Just that look.
Straight at me.

No surprise.
No fear.
No flicker of anything.
Just emptiness.

Then came the voice—
a young tourist, hand-in-hand with his girlfriend.
Loud. South American accent.

“I’m angry at you!”

“You should’ve asked him.”

Macho energy. Trying to sound righteous.

I looked at him.
“He wants to be seen,” I said.

He kept shouting.
But we both knew
he wasn’t speaking for the man.

I walked on.

But the image stayed.

I’ve never photographed a homeless person before.
This wasn’t my way, I thought.
But really, I was scared.
Scared of being judged.

But this time felt different.
The magenta. The shadow. The stillness.
I was pulled into this world—
disarmed, left with the instincts only.

Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe not.

But I stopped.
And I didn’t look away.

And maybe—
in a world that looks past everything—
that’s what hope looks like.