Hands slowly and deliberately peel away from a face which is confusing--in that it is the face of a young man, seemingly made old by the weathering of conditions, both environmental and emotional. He stares, slack-jawed, into his hands for a moment before the continual squeaking and exhausted scraping noises of the brakes draw him back into the moment. He then uses those hands to wipe away tears from below his eyelids and across the bridges of his cheeks; tears which have been, as decided by an eerily-implicit impression, appropriately shed.

These tears did not break free from the stoic prison of this young man's aged face without a struggle; one rooted in the dichotomy of reason and romantic idealism. Allotting only a cursory glimpse into the individual's river of spirit and emotion, it is hard (if not impossible) to discern which of the two opposing forces was victorious in producing visible tokens of sorrow the young man, disconnected from the meaning of the act itself, had been compelled to erase from the furrowed canvas of skin below his eyes.

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