My speech is autumn, winter. Your gaze is spring, your touch is summer. There is more to give by the eye than writing can offer. The people around me all the time, with the postures of angels, big virgins Mary, quiet Sebastians.
He is probably one of the oldest subway artists because I have been running into him for a long time now, at random, in several stations. The skin on his face has an indefinable texture, the remnant of virulent juvenile acne or the after-effects of a burn.