The year is 1826...
The place is Saint-Loup-de-Varennes, France and Joseph Nicéphore Niépce is busy polishing a simple 16 x 20cm plate of pewter. The ingenious Frenchman paws a mysterious jar and speaks excitedly to himself - strangely in perfect English:

"Aha! yes! my work here is nearly done! Some day in England, my magical invention will be used to document the true banalities of life! AHA!".

Monsieur Niépce swiftly coats the shimmering surface of the plate with Bitumen of Judea and positions it carefully inside his camera obscura. Hours and days of burning sunlight fall upon the plate and weave a solar replication. The surface is cleansed with oil of lavender and white petroleum until an image of reality gleams from the mirror. On this day, the product of this alchemy enters the archives of human history. This is the development of the worlds first photograph.

The year is 2006...
The place is Boston, Lincolnshire and in a darkened pub an experienced photographer strokes the lens of his modern SLR camera. He is a professional; he does this for money - and for no other reason than this. Through the viewfinder the grinning faces of the local darts team swell into focus; their stiff organised posture composed with textbook perfection. Our hero fingers the focus ring, releases the shutter... and with a tiny snap another piece of his soul is flushed away.

Later...
In a darkened room the photographer washes a solution from his hands and looks down at what he has done. The image is sharp, well lit with accurate composition. All life and chaos are diffused; balance and order are maintained - just like last week, just like yesterday.. just like death.

The time is now...
The place is Boston, and Sheena rests her eyes on scenes beyond the newspaper office window. The ugly and retarded corpses of men shuffle by like the cadaverous puppets of a re-animation show. The outside door opens with an apology and the dragging steps of a photographers shoes walk their way into her solemn gaze.

The celluloid slut excuses himself and lays six inches of glossy print in front of her face. She takes it, as she always does and examines the offering for blemishes and imperfections. The item is exposed to perfection; the sharpness, the skin tones, the arrangement of faultless equilibrium - everything as it should be, and as it always is. She looks at the arms; held in the customary hand-shake pose and recalls events of a night in memory.

She remembers the hands; touching her, gripping her, hurting her. She re-lives the taste of his cock in her mouth, his over enthusiasm, her feelings of fright, her gag reflex and the unique flavour of acid.

She looks back at the picture, the same as yesterday's, the same as last week's and notices it is shit. For all of it's technical perfection, staring at is makes her feel dead inside. Here is no 'slice of life' no 'moment in time', but a cold and manufactured exercise in visual mathematics. The longer she looks at it, the more she feels her eyes being violated by its existence. She takes the exposure in her hand and pulls it into a gaping drawer. She accepts it, she always accepts it. It's just easier to say 'yes' and endure the sickness. The photographer will get his money; just like last week, just like yesterday. One day he will die... but not today.