The man is old, his face a map of lines, his skin white with dust, a small patch of blood at the side of his mouth. If his eyes were not open, staring at me through a million pixels, his thousand miles eyes that contain the deaths of babies and seas of unshed tears – if those old eyes were not open, I would think him a man of ash. But he is living somehow, in the rubble of the city. If living it is.