“An old wrinkled gray man in an old pub. Looking in the mirror behind the dirty counter, he saw the reflection of his exhausted and ruined body. There was a loss in his eyes that he could not overcome. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hand as waves of pain and loneliness washed over him. When the woman he loved left, she took a piece of his heart with her and left him devastated. For him, there was no other truth, only pain and suffering. In that old tavern kingdom of the homeless, he became a slave to his own demons and invisible bonds. He had already seen the cemetery and the pit dug in it for his own grave. And so he sat in the dark and smoke, bottle in hand and cigarette in mouth, flooded with silent regrets and memories of what might have been. His voice, once full of hope and love, now died away in the whisper of the wind that brought only sadness and bitterness.”

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