Beyond the closed drapes he has tried to master the glittering paws of loneliness. All those idiots outside, waiting to be exhausted by oxygen, that asshole race calls him the flute man. He doesn’t know why though, may be for his tone, or his unusual holes at wrong places or for the fact that he actually carries a flute; a wooden one in his coat pocket. Immobilized Galaxy is his wet dreams. 

It was the night of sweet exposure and contaminations of bitter alcohol. Inside those four walls without any clothes, without any burning orgasms, he was navigating the oceans around the corner. If you can observe without any sleazy purpose you can see the burning paintings.He has kept them all, no devotional time analysis perhaps. From the day he has learned to feel emotions on his skins he has been suicidal. He opened the front door and tried to feel the rush of quivering heart beats with his ephemeral nakedness. And a sudden wave full of shame. It’s the time to pour another drink and a ‘social’ smoke. There must be somebody knocking. But Perhaps he wasn’t made for listening to knocks.