Jeanette’s hands are those of an artist and a wanderer. Even her cane feels personalized, wrapped with Scotch Tape. I should ask her about the tape, the next time I see her. I always notice it, and as of yet have not made an image that accurately expresses this cane of hers. Her face, and the folds of her eyes, and the little beads of sweat that gather closely even on a night as cold as this one was, are all treasures. An individualist, every part of her a wonder, and all for some reason lightly glossed, as if she applied something that glistens to her skin. Chipped nail polish, artisan silver rings and bracelets, and a little chihuahua named Vanille that loves and protects, and waits patiently as she gently watches over her master and friend.I met a homeless man on East 16th Street last week. He told me that nothing is promised. Just because you: expect it, need it, want it, worked for it, deserve it, it is not promised to you. Nothing is. I believe that no truer words have been spoken.
A tardigrade vampire, that is all