The subject sleeps with a smug look on his otherwise undisturbed face.
He moves his lips, gently, as if whispering prose, as if coding golden phrases that would change the world.
He has goosebumps all over his arms. The night is rather cold.
Confronted in the morning, the subject recalls a late teen dream – a room in an attic in Stockholm, where the subject retreats, leaving behind everybody who knew him.
There he writes his legacy, drinks himself into oblivion, and fries his lungs along a classic straight line that leads towards an early grave.
The subject admits now it was a childish dream.
However, the sentiment seems to linger, and the appeal seems to be very much still there.