He speaks with laughter. Echoing out from the chambers of his being, his howl ignites the dormant joy of those nearby. Arms stretched upwards, he feels every rise and fall of the journey ahead. Each twist and turn met with a stubborn joie de vivre; a refusal to let his lows infect his highs. He challenges life. Blows back at the wind. "Look Ma! No hands!"
Black and white coats his canvas; what you see is what you get. No flash. All substance. He is the music. The dance. The party. He is the Goodfella.
Words by Rich Etienne