Maps and Directions

I would scalp his head and put it on my face....

He's just got such a great thick beard when he grows it out, and naturally brilliant long hair

Dude...dude.....!

....But its going to waste!

Somewhere in white Ontario, he sits behind his desk, sipping on his apple cider. I would like to picture him calm, but placidity seldom resides on his visage. Maybe its the flowing hair that he parts every morning. Maybe it's his affliction, you know his, his.... Leon. It's a long story. 

He's intrigued; a white man trying to understand the suffering of a people quite distant. 

Turns an inquisitive look towards his map. 

He gets up, frowning, searches his pockets for his glasses - vanity is the death of his vision -  trying to focus on this small stretch of yellow. 

It stops there. His mind, like a native, is not known for a sedentary lifestyle. His thoughts are nomadic in nature, wild and easily perturbed. 

He dreams of a dreamy french girl, who dances like Zizi Jeanmaire and lives everyday through chanson.

He'll come back to his academic wanderings sometime. For now he's frequenting art galleries, affectionately known as parisian laundry.