the sadness of art

Whatever I do, I know that I can never alleviate the pain and fear in this man's eyes.

I don't even know why he's scared.

I think he's scared of the steering wheel. That thing's huge.

Or maybe he's scared of the photographer, who has clearly jumped out in front of him on the road in the middle of the night. Or maybe it's the inexplicable light source that seems to coming from a point beneath and to his left.

Maybe he's scared of his hat, and spends his life in perpetual fear. Why doesn't he remove his hat?

We will never know.

Update: I just received a spamburst from Gustavio Fuqua with the subject line "Frosted maun". I make it a rule not to open spam, but I really really want to know what a frosted maun is. I took a moment out to google the word and found that Maun is the capital of Botswana. Could you have Maun frosted? Latitude is an issue for natural frost, and if you want to go the artificial route, who's got that much frosting? Not to mention the grief you'd get from the Lords of Maun.