That's him. He likes to blow his smoke in the countless eyes of polluted pink sunsets, and clouds. And stomp on the leaves of the Fall that won't seem to come but might come too soon. He's all embarcaderos and rodeos in the city of cities where leaving is a way of living. Or maybe vice versa. His guitar is unplugged and his drying pen is maybe not so dry. No matter what, the collar's up, and he's still howling into the wind.
Even silently.
Especially, in fact.