Paul's legs are a paradox of purpose and poetry—two sculpted pillars shaped not merely by motion, but by meaning. Each muscle seems to hum with untold stories: quiet hikes up forgotten hills, frantic sprints through rain-slick streets, the silent patience of waiting rooms, the defiant stance during life’s gustiest winds. There’s something about the way they hold him—rooted yet restless—that makes you wonder if they’re made less of bone and tendon and more of compass and conviction. They don’t just move him forward; they are the journey.