A woman is imprisoned within the careful cropping of a photograph. The fine veins in her hand curve slowly upwards, as though to follow the trail of smoke from a glowing cigarette. Her hair, all silken tendrils, imitate the slender curve of a smooth white neck. You are drawn to this portrait, you marvel at how slick it looks. You think nicotine is such a glamorous habit. You would like to be afflicted by an ennui such as this, a lassitude that turns boredom into beauty.
But on closer inspection, a sideways glance reveals a curious thing—the woman, her cigarette burning down to the filter, the woman, her fingers tightly knuckled, this woman, pretty thing caught in an artful crop, her eyes—they are a hundred years old.