There's something about a little boy and his cans of spray paint. Quietly he stands against a wall that has been painted over, over, and over again. He braces himself against it with his left hand, a hand lightly dusted in white and blue paint. Once in a while he'll put his head closer to the wall, to breath so that the paint won't run. And as he steps back to admire his work, we all step back with him. But while he admires his own work, I admire him, his talent, his heart, his love.