There was a tunnel in Paris that closed on a Sunday to allow people to walk, ride, race in both directions through its eerie yellow light. I was mesmerised by this strange traffic seemingly going nowhere in the dark. It was nightmarish as if they were all trapped in a dark labyrinth. A mirror of the rat race that lay above. Each person moved in their own peculiar way, at their own peculiar pace but with the same sense of urgency to escape into daylight. The more I looked, the more the images became surreal, existential, as if the tunnel was in another dimension, a world where perspective and identity were questioned.

Then I realised after making this book and now you reading it, that it was all just part of ‘The Game’.