I see a figure that's a meter sixty-six. The figure
has green eyes. It has black hair and is un-shaved. This
figure needs to shave. The figure looks like a man, yet I
doubt he feels like one. He's just a boy. Never wanting to
grow up.  

         I see a smile on his face. It seems at first this
feeling is really happy. Yet, I doubt it. When I see his
smile I notice it does not express his inner self. The
feeling is desperate. The figure has an inner conflict.
From one point, the figure wants to run away from his
complicated life.
The figure wants to be free. Free like the birds that fly in
the sky and no one prevents them from doing so. Maybe meet a
nice girl. Read a new thriller. See the world.

        On the other hand, the figure is seeking to live a
meaningful life. You can tell this inner conflict is making
the figure suffer such pain that any other mortal (assuming
normal) would not be able to withstand such soreness. The
soul is screaming, "help! I'm messed up!"

        This figure reminds me of someone very close. I
guess too close. I'm fortunate to know this figure. This
figure is me.