Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David. He’s mine. I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.
