The only defining feature of his overall blandness is the astounding facial hair. His eyebrows are bushy and seem to have a life of their own. A toothbrush mustache bristles on an otherwise baby smooth face.

His gait is stooped, and there is a strange staccato to his steps, as if each respective foot had a rich and personal musical life. He can be spotted strutting in the market to some internal rhythm in a tattered suit and a pair of disintegrating shoes. The anachronistic affectation of a bowler hat clamps on for dear life to a shock of dark hair, lurching here and there as his jerky movements take him stall to stall.

Perpetually poor, his small adroit hands are talented sneaks and the rest of him are often surprised to find a warm croissant or a crunchy delicacy ascending towards an willing mouth. Of course, that means his fleet feet are alerted to the necessity for immediate fugitation.

Quite often he’s found in twilight t0, with a hop and skip, bend and pluck a smoldering butt from the sidewalk.