The man plays the piano and singing in bars. It is their way of life, since he was fired by the Philharmonic for being drunk at the trials. He has stopped drinking but he plays and sings in bars while watching others drink.
drink is not surprising, however, but the smoke. Even the snuff, because I never smoked, but the smoke. Smoke to relieve the contrasts that blurs the outlines, which makes it just fine imperceptible. Like the woman who tonight looks, hears, though it seems so far away. Missing, perhaps, is there.
She then song with no name it, she not further away than the possibility of brushing his skin when I finish this.
plays and sings, and it fades, loses sharpness, is becoming more of a blur with no new account, a vanishing line and finally nothing.
just the subject, the man who once played in the Philharmonic and now makes a living in bars. Drink in one gulp a glass of warm water rises and heads for the table and empty.
alcohol is not surprising, neither snuff nor perhaps love.
But the smoke.
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