Footage

After a quick tracking shot along the dark corridor there's a panning shot of the room. A jazz tune assails the quietness and the lamp sheds a yellow print on the cloths and papers scattered over the floor. Your thoughts suddenly make a retrospective start, then they return to the untidy place –there's always a return– and they retry their worthless struggle bending their backs as waves would do.

There's no one in this room except the invisible hero, absurd and stubborn, for not in vain wev'e already made use of a simile that approaches the magnificent tedium of the sea on the shores. The furniture is scant and the cold winter wind pulls its dirty fingers through the inky gap of the inky-black window.

Unsteady steps sound in the stairs with the coughs of a drunkard. And your thoughts bend their piercing stem of wishes towards the past trying to put in order the remainders of life, the chaotic, indigestible waste of the world elapsed.

There's no one in this room. If only... And the camera shuts it's eyelid of shadows.