**As published in the Purple Haut-Parleur
Languidly stowed in the armchair at the corner of the room, under the old lamp he once got from the flea market, turning the pages with his hand bearing cigarette while Hamed Sino ‘s voice caressing the air particles filling the room, seeking a life he never had but always felt more in tune with.
He parted the company of his consciousness for what seemed to be a moment, to find the smoke of his cigarette petrified in an ubiquity like a still shot taken from a film noire. Should he freak out, a distant reminiscence fondled his sight and a sigh started to collect deep in his soul.
Meanwhile a totally new rational externality to his life came into being, and what seemed to be his presence felt like a distant fading memory of a life once lived.
A howl resonated his being into countless pieces, shimmering the echo into nothingness as his eyes undisclosed in silence.
Totally blithe to it all the music was still wining over the beats of silence lying in the wait.