I see myself through your eyes, in your photography of me. I notice without judgement, and try to track the beauty of the person in the frame. Discounting the fizzy hair and the far from perfect nose, I try to guage what you saw in me that day, several days, over the years. What you saw and what you loved.
I realise those were your diaries. I have my words like you have your lens.
You will remain immortal in these words while your portrait of me pops up in my gallery.