In what one sees, the photograph has a character turned grey in the distilled monochrome of false memory. He stands poised behind a thin vertical line that interrupts the lower centre of the scene. His spindly arms jut out on either side of this line, first flowing outwards, then flipping at a sharp angle, then sinking into his dark blazer. His trousers, perhaps a burnt brown, perhaps a funny green, are his sole non-casual outfit—erect, disciplined, as if under his headmaster’s steady gaze—while his heels hint the cusp of a twitch. Soon, one deciphers his action: a tiptoe to the end of the vertical line where a microphone flops in silence.
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