Just when the mind gets all cloudy and faith makes a sharp U-turn and starts fading away, he starts to make an appearance with both hands up, covering a dreamy background of an old building with breath-taking French style windows. He wears his watch on his left wrist and look at his own eyes reflecting on his very own palms pointing to the sky. Is it his own eyes’ reflection or someone else’s black, or blue, or hazel gaze looking at him, while he desperately conjures some light to wipe out the fog? He was born in nineteen thirty two, when his creator was only thirty two. He is now what? Seventy eight?
No matter what, after all these times he is still a Lonely Metropolitan in black and white, crawling towards me in all his glory like the most real mirage.