Those eyes of wisdom followed me as I strolled onto the street. The cigarette became his sixth finger, as he stared me down. No one could argue take he didn't possess a certain wisdom, that could only be gained by years of life and struggle. His skin was sandpaper, rough and hard. More wrinkles covered his skin than an elephants. His wrinkles were as deep as canyons. His eyes were blue like the sea. A soft stubble walked across his chin up to his temples. His hair was as silver as a metal, and glistened in the light. He was a statue, never moving, only his eyes roamed from place.