God, he's thin. So painfully skinny, scarcely a hundred pounds on his 5'4" frame, if that; all slim lines and delicate angles. His features are finely drawn, high cheekbones and classically beautiful bone structure; his dark eyes, dusted with golden-brown shadow and lined with black kohl and mascara, are made large and luminous by his spareness and the paleness of his skin. Feathery, true black hair, shining blue when the light hits it, falls constantly across his face, curls down around his ears, flirts with the nape of his neck. The overall effect is at once disquietingly fragile and ethereally lovely.

His black t-shirt hangs loosely, adorned with an apparently hand-painted scene of Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire, done in shades of grey. The paint is beginning to crackle and fade; the shirt is apparently beloved and far from new. Beneath it, his white jeans fit closely -- it's amazing he could find them small enough -- and, perhaps predictably, disappear into battered black knee-high combat-style boots. Black enamel coats his nails; it, too, is chipped. Overall, he wears a rather expensive-looking ankle-length woolen coat, hanging open and letting the breezes in. He appears to have no jewelry, no piercings, no tattoos; no such adornment of any kind.