A young man. Wears the uniform of some restaurant. Red vinyl coat, white pants, hat with some icon, carrying the food he’s supposed to deliver. Walks through a crowd. Eyes like night, looking far away. Pale skin, almost the color of his pants. On his feet, shoes that were in fashion last winter, or so. Cheap. Blue plastic with red decals. Self-aware anonymity in his gait. Rock in a stream, people flow around him, blurred into a line. A face in the crowd. Lost in the mass.

Anderson Sanchez. First man with mirror eyes.

On the road. Quiet. No other cars. Driving gloves on the steering wheel, no reflection on the glass. Fall day, yellow sun through burnished leaves. The white hood reflecting no color. Silent curve in the road, almost not worth taking. Crashing of dark trees, rending of flimsy steel, the shriek of rubber tires on an asphalt road. No sign of the mirror eyes.

Anderson Sanchez. To see what he sees.

Hawk flies high. Riding a thermal into the sky. Cobalt blue, great bastion of cumulus. Pillars of ivory, wispy and substantial. Pylons of an electric tower, black against the lighted day. Hard angles, the skeleton of horn. Dominating the scene, form from absence. Shadow given shape.

Anderson Sanchez. Artist of a new world.