One single widescreen film frame in landscape, wider than it is tall, full bleed to all four edges — one continuous photograph taken from one camera position at one shot size in one moment. The camera behind a foreground object that crosses the lens, the subject beyond it. The camera looks through a wing mirror on a door, the road and a figure held in it, photographed on a long lens at a shallow focus, the opening sitting square to the frame and occupying a quarter to a third of it, placed off centre. The surface the opening sits in is a mustard yellow rendered wall, the render coarse, filling the rest of the picture and smooth and unbroken. The opening's edge is the hardest edge in the frame and still falls off soft at the limit of the lens's depth of field, with the scene inside it softer still. Inside it a confession, two faces close and one of them talking — warm, lit from within, and with people moving in it. A wet city street at night under an illuminated sign, the sign thrown out of focus, one invented adult alone, fifties, a weathered handsome face with deep-set eyes, completely still and facing the camera, level and completely still, facing the camera, the expression withheld. A bunch of flowers, fresh in one panel and dropped in another in the frame with them. Traffic running past in a continuous stream of lit trails somewhere else in the frame. A soft round halo around every small bright source inside the opening. Fine grain with halation spreading from every lit window and lamp. Somebody on the outside of something that is going on past them, and everybody inside unaware of being watched.