He's got hair, with the luxury of neatness.
Thick, black hair, one strand hanging loose.
Thinkers eyebrows as straight as crossroads.
He wants to say what he's thinking, but he's too busy thinking!
His eyes are remaining shut.
He doesn't want reality to sink into his mindset.
The creative path will be lost if things become real again.
He draws to inhale, the anticipation of the next idea.
Provoking it, trying to find which path to follow.
He smokes three cigarettes in a row.
He will get there.
He doesn't want to rush it.
He is alone, just him and his creative thought storm.
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