"When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly host. Instinctively, when he awakes, he looks to these, and in an instant reads off his own position on the earth's surface and the amount of time that has elapsed during his slumbers; but this ordered procession is apt to grow confused, and to break its ranks"
— Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past
I envy the abandon with which they do it. In the shade, on leather seats, on cold stone wrapped in a sunny day—vertical, cramped on a plane, in classic pose and practice, deftly avoiding drool on the train, in the corner at a party, in their own bed in work uniform at the end of the day— all the varied positions of male repose. Sleep comes easily to them. I love watching men sleep, especially in public. I envy them. They need not worry about strangers doing even stranger things to their relaxed bodies.
The somnolent citizen is subject to the same photographic rights as a waking citizen. Thus, I may photograph any and all men that I find sleeping in public. I have a collection of them. It consists of all different types of man; all sharing one thing: their shameless, worry-free public slumbers.
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