“The day my shadow gets bored of dragging behind me”, the Stranger said in faint flickering candlelight, “I shall be thankful to her alone: in her, my most faithful one, lies a grain of existence”.

“I have played different roles in life, but forgotten who myself is. I reflect in the eyes of others, and it seems like I’m just a part of their dream. I feel like a ghost. Like an invisible man. Like a speckle on a background.”

We are sitting in a midnight empty-eyed bar. Dust, the local coquette, has found complimentary lighting. Day after day she has to deal with refusals “Sorry, sweetheart, but we simply got no role for Dust!”

“See, my dear, I am a pianist. But the thing is… Even there, between me and a piano, a foreign hand passes me foreign notes, page after page, year after year.”

His wrinkles look like cracks in clay, lazily oozing the fog of time. And in that I catch the complex fragrance of his life. He’s been on a beach. He’s been with a womam. He’s been stealing neighbour’s raspberries with his friends.

“I think I understand you, my friend. You and I are of the same kind… For actors, I used to be a play in several acts. For musicians, I used to be many songs.”

“Be my play.” – “Write me”. A swift move in the direction of the wallet. You are here. I am here. Maybe we are just a dream. Maybe even Dust forgets us tomorrow. It matters not.