By Myself

On Tuesday evening I caught the overnight ferry from Split to the port city of Ancona in the Italian region of Marche. After a night spent slumped over a couch in the ferry’s bar, I was faced with a prospect which I had not expected so early on in my trip. I was going to have two nights in a private room of my own.

No snoring, no one getting into the room at two in the morning and turning all the lights on and no alarms to wake me at six in the morning for a train that someone else is catching. Sure, a private room in a small guesthouse seemed to have its benefits. But as I ascended the funicular to the small medieval village of Osimo, I was overcome with the feeling of solitude. I was alone. So alone. Who was I going to talk to? What was I to do? I decided to express my sorrow on the best way I know how - through visual poetry.