A city in the East. Stars stitched into the night shine with a dim resolve as man-made stars fueled by kerosene roar within tenements and townhouses. Surrounding the starlight, the sounds of the street echo up. Peddlers. Carts. Footsteps splashing through puddles. The city breathes through an open window into a dark room. Curtains flutter. The ambling night reveals the outlines of chairs, flowers, and picture frames, and then a passing trolley fills this sketch with white. Curtains made of cotton printed with scenes from a seashore flutter. For an instant, the tartan patterns on the apartment's sofa and seats are made real. For a moment, the brilliant violets and yellows of the flowers come into bloom. For just a tick of a clock, two young, innocent faces smile inside mahogany frames inlaid with bronze. And then there's dark.

And as the rattle of the trolley turns to a hush, the city's nocturnal breath returns. Peddlers. Carts. Footsteps splashing through puddles. But those footsteps come faster now. Louder, too. Louder, still. Until they pound more than the just-passed train. Frantic footsteps splashing through puddles. A strip of locks shakes. A riot of creaks racing bowing stairs. More locks. A slamming door. And now, all about the room with an open window, a single lamp casts a foxfire glow.

One of the innocent faces from the photographs stands there. A man. The other face from the pictures is absent. There's something else, too. There's no more innocence in his eyes. He wilts. His eyes, his skin, and his spirit all dampen alone in the night.

The man breathes quickly. He wipes his nose, wipes his cheeks, and looks down. In one hand, he holds a gold chain. In the other, he grips a pipe. He places his offerings before the room's blossoms. He runs. Disappearing into the dark, the man rummages about unseen corners for a suitcase and uneven heap of clothes. He throws shirts and pants into the case and piles papers atop them. He empties drawers of documents into the thing and then forces it shut. He dashes a great coat over his shoulders and stumbles into his kitchen.

The young man stuffs his pockets. Apples and bread. He bites into a piece of fruit, chews it twice, and spits it across the floor. Reaching onto a high shelf, he feels an assortment of jars before coming to the one second from the right. A hefty bottle of stewed plums. Pulling it down, ripping off its top, he stabs his hand inside. His fingers curl around a bundle of wrinkled green.

The man shoves the money into his coat and returns to his suitcase. He picks up the thing and drags it to the door. His eyes water. Stopping, trekking back, he returns to the table with his chain and pipe. His nose runs. He takes the chain, ties it around his neck, and again moves to the door. His frame quakes. A final time, he stops. Again, he goes to the table, or rather a small cabinet beside it. He pulls bourbon from inside a decorative glass door. Clutching the courage to his chest, his eyes make their last pass over the pipe and flowers. His eyes wobble. The lead pipe is bent, broken, and dripping black. The flowers in full bloom have turned dark. Where moments ago were rich colors are now only a gallows of grey. Petals hang limp. Extinguished. Withered daisies and violas sit alone in an empty room.

The man runs. A slamming door. A riot of creaks racing bowing stairs. Frantic footsteps splashing through puddles. Peddlers. Carts. Hammers from distant laborers. Frantic footsteps. A horn from a ship coming into port. A dish washer arguing with an alley cat. A woman offering her body. Footsteps. A lush looking for change. A dog howling at the moon. The man's gone, disappeared within the city's nocturnal breath.