An oldish guy sitting on a staircase of a burned down church, trembling with cold in a worn-out overcoat, praying quietly or maybe just trying to keep his hands warm. Snow is flying in the air, certainly unimpressed. The calmness is scary. Then Ave Maria hits the gloom from a nearby pole loudspeaker.
There is no flame in those eyes of his. No passion left. Could anybody make him scream? Would he scream, one wonders, can he scream at all? Or just ask for help? Can he? No words are needed, no gestures, just a glance, please.
Has he resigned altogether? Who is he, or rather who was he?
As I'm passing by I have a strange feeling. It cannot be me.
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