The title is a story. Something has happened. Either some calamity has befallen the man, or some lucky break, some triumph. His gloves clutch a paint can lid like a steering wheel, implying driving—a sense of taking charge of his destiny. But his contraption suggests some infirmity, his face some agony. Could it be that this isn’t a story of a day, but a dream of life? Walking and driving being metaphors for lightness and darkness, for the war that is fought in life, and "home" being the place from whence we come, and to which we all return?

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