A celadon fog steals quietly through the nooks of a nameless street, and obscures all in its path; until the street lamps can no longer illuminate the stony road. Through the night there is a husky haze filled with the scent of water vapor and cigarette smoke that becomes muddled with the little light that pours through the surrounding shop windows.
It is through this lighted darkness that the people walk. Everywhere, the people walk the tired streets. Tortured with each step they take. Though they move forward, each breath makes their load heavier and heavier. The grey nights are filled with the haunting symphony of the cooing wind and the rustling leaves; always backed by the steady rhythm of the footsteps: footsteps of the lonely people, treading along a path with no destination.
Every once in a while, the soft melody is injected with the jolly cry of the wandering drunkard. Singing a song about someone he once knew, or someone he once was. The drunkard laughs. Some think he laughs because he has found his freedom, some claim it’s because he indulges in his escape. Or they say that he laughs at the sallow faces that pass him by, night after night. But no one dares to stop and ask. If they did, they’d know the reason.
He laughs because he can no longer cry. Yet the plight of man refuses to leave the marrow of his feeble bones. He sees the faces that accompany the footsteps. And in those eyes he sees a reflection of himself that he had locked away years ago. He sees the desperation for love, success, belonging; as well as the strong intention to remain standing strong and unbroken. He sees the portion of the soul that is left incomplete; the portion that can never be filled.
The people he sees are walking, continuously, ceaselessly, walking… walking every nameless street. Indulging in the phthisis of their own being. Yet in their eyes he still sees a flicker of hope. So the drunkard laughs.
