His salt and pepper hair is cropped short. His eyes are peacefully closed behind thin black frames, unwavering; his stubbled face, solemn, and his lips, quietly muttering.
The ceil blue scrubs are complemented with a worn pair of running shoes. A hospital badge loosely dangles from the lanyard around his neck.
The train lurches to a stop, he furrows his eyebrows and tightly clutches to something inside a front pocket of his bag. The first cruciform bead with the cross escapes incautiously. He opens his eyes briefly and scurries it back into his hands, continuing with prayer.
Curing Procrastination 