MUSE

     A man is walking at all hours of the night through the most sordid neighborhoods of the city.  He walks lost, desperation like a rock, hangs from his throat.  He stopped for some moments facing the red doors-ajar and foul smelling--of the bordello: he exchanges some words with the women waiting on the threshold.  He looked sideways at the street with eyes filled with nostalgia, and continues his march, ever faster.
     His hands squeeze the money in his pant pockets, the last that remains of his miserable salary.  The dogs bark behind him.  A window suddenly pops into view, from the street there can be seen a married couple talking over dinner.  The man turns to himself and thinks of his own evenings, his own dinners, and his own home.  Scenes such as these weigh on his soul.  It must seem unending, his long solitude.
     The individual is fairly young, his skin is creased and profoundly dark circles under his eyes due to a lack of sleep lasting weeks.  His shoes, formerly elegant and presentable, leave a permanent trail through the streets of the city.  His eyes have a yellow look to them like a frightened child. He has also been tired, he waits a while until he sees a door's threshold of scattered rose petals and a finished bottle of liquor.