Noble, slender and soberb always with the cloak, big hat, and cane. Always high, supremus with a touch of charm and beauty; with the upright back and the straight neck, with the big blue hurting eyes penetrating others lives.
Full of open scars and burning passion. Sadness in his hollow and cold bones. Ice in his look, fire after. An image of a vague memory of Russia accosed his body, soul and spirit.
5 a.m., he wakes up, bathes, walks, dresses, drinks his flask of scotch. The day is touching. The morning blooms with a strange and tangible air of happiness, but that feeling left him years ago.
Slowly, the years go by, along come his vigor and skin. Disappearing, no one remembering, slowly his soul was eaten and his spirit consumed. His mind could not longer think. His body was left alone as it had always been.