My job was simple. Take a photo each day and post it online. The more views it got, the more money I earned. Views = money, simple.
As the morning sun crept out from beneath the horizon, I grabbed trusty old John (my camera), threw on my leather coat and took to the streets.
I started to explore, walking down somewhat familiar avenues and roads until I stumbled upon this house. 68 Woolworths Street.
The bricks crumbled slightly and the paint on the walls cracked. Rusty pipes lined both sides of the entrance.
As my stare lingered, the thick mahogany doors creaked open, revealing an old wrinked face. A small grin was plastered on his countenance, showing a row of crooked teeth. He was obviously old, yet he seemed to glow from within. You could tell that he was one joyful old man.
The old man carefully crept out of the doorway. His bony fingers grasped his walking stick and he slowly took a step onto the street. Every gust of wind seemed to lift his frail body off the ground.
He seemed to stumble with every step, losing his balance every few meters or so. Yet, despite all the wobbling he didn't seem to mind. He took his time savoring the air around him. His eyes glimmered with a childlike joy and excitement. He exuded an aura of happiness that could never be dampened. Not in a million years.
The morning sun painted a soft orange hue upon his back, casting a delicate shadow onto the pavement.
A picture perfect moment.
As he slowly started to retreat into the distance, I gently raised my camera up and... Click.
