His hands were shaking. Never been the sad one. More the one full of hope. Bottle for bottle. He enjoyed the warmth coming more and more through his heart, his fingers, his feet, his head. Then and when he went happy, catching a smile on a face. Nearly never it was a smile for him. He was dirt and he knew that. 44, smelling and looking like shit, living of the clothes others threw away. But he was happy. He knew the city. Knew all backstages. Lived in the city which never sleeps.
This day killed him. Walking in a greek resturante. No one looked at him. It was so warm. No one. No eye. This was the moment he saw: he’ll never be with someone.
Dave and his beer. Erruption of the heart. Homeless flower. Unbound spells of fearless eyes.