A man undercover. Dark sunglasses, legs crossed, papers in hand. The glass-enclosed terrace is cold, so he puts a cap on. His trousers are uncovering his socks as he sits, he must feel the January breeze.
He contemplates. To go out of hiding, to share insight with the company he keeps? The urge to uncover is too big, and he decides to step away from the newspaper, and show his semi-concealed face.
He takes a breath, and with relief, steps into the conversation of his company. With words just flowing from his mouth, he makes that move into the light and shares.
Shares something from his solitude, not much, but enough for his blood not to freeze in his veins.
He still needs the air of mystery, he still needs a place to be alone, to be left underneath the sheets of paper that try to convey the hidden truth.
There is no need for him to be completely uncovered. Just a small move into the light is enough.
Spirit of Tara 