We see this young man from the waist up, the picture cropped tight around him, the background out of focus. His hands are crossed at the wrists, as if waiting to be bound, a potent gesture of surrender. And he looks defeated. His face is unshaven. His hair is unkempt. His eyes look powerfully inward, as if he's absorbed by the workings of his own mind. Or his mind has quit working for a moment and his body has settled into the silence. The picture catches him in what might seem to be only a moment of despair if it weren't for his hands, the way he holds them, which speak to long suffering, to resignation and surrender. This is a troubled young man. He's alone in a bar, which is where I found him one morning sitting the way you see him. I don't even think he knew I was there. Behind him you can see daylight reflected in mirrors. Stools are stacked up on the bar out of focus. That era, there were casualties. A whole generation bent on being visionaries, every street corner drug dealer hawking the stuff you needed to expand your mind. Some expanded their minds into oblivion. We all knew one or two. We said they burned out. We said they were wasted. Here's one captured for you. What you see in his eyes, in his posture: that too was a part of the time.