It is lonely here. Not a soul comes by. I have the breadth of this city street to myself in this fading hour before the bells toll. For now, the sounds are my own, the footsteps, the breath, and not even some meagre insect interrupts this solo, this performance. I play the instrument, man, and all his sounds are mine, his movements portrayed. So, in a quiet moment I walk alone, in the night I wander. I am wearied for want of the sun, but stop beneath this this flickering lamp.
How many know what it is to be alone?
Tale Told 