Some stupid characterization of a state in which we succumb to our own individual demons, the same ones we confront on a daily basis. In these moments, minutes, hours, days or weeks we assimilate a wanderer lost in a desolated island. Ss he makes another wasted attempt at connecting with someone, he fills up his last empty bottle of liquor with a torn-up piece of paper from some book. In the blank side of it are some scribbles of the few regrets he has and the even lesser hopes and dreams he has already given up on. Hoping for something of value that could get him out of here, he spends his days alone like he always has been.

His face still shows the exhaustion of decades of hard work, his glasses have turned yellow from the burning tobacco of his pipe. His clothes were of the highest quality decades ago but now are just worn pieces of cloth. What a joy he feels sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons that keep approaching, silently begging for the few crumbs of bread he has no particular reason to be giving away. Another piece of paper receives the careless and gentle caress of a worn-out pencil, even though the paper doesn't know it some of the most beautiful poems are being written on it. Sadly, neither does he, as all he sees is the face of the one that left him a few years too early. Because 60 years don't go about so easily, his vision stays blurry regardless of how many times he rubs his tired eyes; the words are hard to read, and nothing stops his eyes from pouring down. Everyone else will read through those lines and smile while innocently ignoring the fact that she was nowhere to be found, and all he did was write with the hopes of finding something of value to trade for her presence, next to him one more time, after that he could go to sleep for once.

Another half-full coffee mug sits on the table, hazelnut this time. It sits there, only getting colder and leaving another lonely ring on the table. A cup of french roast by its side, she realizes it's not the taste, nor the roast. Afraid to move them, she sits in the room, all the lights off, on a cloudy day. How did six become seven, eight, nine and now twelve? A year since he left on that ship, there were no words, just a tear in his eyes and a pallid imprint on her finger for a goodbye. A lonely ring sat in his pocket just like the many more this table has now on it. Nothing to hope for, but a few coins that could bring it back to harbor. Another knock on the door; she knows who it is but again refuses to answer. Still hoping for something of value that could put him on the other side of that annoying knock.

What more can one man say to the future he so dearly hopes for when the dirt underneath his fingernails cannot pay for rain? A dirt farmer is all he can call himself. But dirt cannot feed them, so he gives them whatever little he has. Or had for himself. Well, if all it would take were desires, prayers, sweat or blood, he would possess all the riches in this world, along with a few more. No complaint has ever left his lips, not because they are too dry to speak, but because he still hopes for something that will stretch them once again. The same way she does every morning, even if it is for a few seconds. It's not like a few coins could bring back the clouds, still nothing would make him happier than a few taps on his hat. Now, he has been fooled before, but at last, this endless summer seems to be ending. Nothing short of a monsoon approaches on the horizon.