He walks in, nodding, gray complexion, shaved head

He is making great strides…

The lost look

Sneaks quickly into a corner of the waiting room

The black eye of stormy evenings

Strangeness

Living model of the walking man by Giacometti

He stands in a corner

Escaping from sight

Petrified by fear

Fear of death ?

He says no since he is looking for her

Thinking his life is over

no interest for him

It doesn’t hold together anymore

And yet he is there

In front of me

In this magical moment where the unconscious mingle