You catch only but a glimpse of his behind high-tailing it. He is out.


You may have seen him, standing vulnerably in the spot light, under the street lamp. He may have been selling things, or handing out flyers, or taking a survey. He might have been friendly, or overbearing in someone's personal space, but didn't hurt anybody. He probably wasn't selling drugs.


But still he runs off, like a deer who hears the shot of a gun, tail up and into the thicket, or in this case, into the shadow. Is it more intriguing that he should continue his work from the privacy of the shaddow? Or is it more disturbing. You can't see his face anymore, nothing from him to reveal himself, his character, his intentions. Is he still the same vulnerable man he was before?


But in this exact moment, he is running, paused in a second of the mind; hair flopping, leg jiggling, shirt wind-flapping; running. From here, you can't see what's on his mind. You don't know what's startled him, what has caused this decision to move.


You do, however, know this: he is the same man, with inhibitions, dreams, worries, cares, fears and loves, all of his own. In this glimpse of running, you can't possibly know why he's running, or who he is. He's just running. Go and find out why, if you care so much.