Abstract

A faint smell of rosemary permeates the room; it is a soft and soothing smell. Weaving into it is another, not as sweet but an amiable one, and a few more sniffs will reveal that it is the comforting smell of a sweating body after a long, tiring walk. Small drops of sweat sit on the broad forehead of a young male figure sitting on a bedstead, quiet except for an occasional deep and very prolonged breath that inhales decades of struggle and exhales uncountable moments of grief, tiredness, and regret. The man on the bedstead, wearing old jeans soaked in his sweat, is holding a black pen. His bare feet are neatly crossed in front of him; with a leaning hand, he unwillingly and reluctantly, but carefully, takes a note...