I thought of the title as I took this photo of an old man in his strange dusty shop, cluttered from floor to ceiling with metal springs.

The street outside was bustling and loud. Some sun streamed in on him as he read the Quran. He was reading suras about the afterlife.

The repetitive pattern of the dark spirals, some looming in the shadows, reminded me of the daily grind of life, of being just a cog in a great machine. But alongside this lost loneliness there was also a sense of sanctuary.

(The phrase "this mortal coil" comes from Hamlet's To Be or Not to Be speech.)