At a table scorched by memories, sits a figure who has lost the form of his soul devoured by wounds and an unending drunken haze. His mouth agape, screaming silently into a smoky sky, where a broken heart floats, haunted by the shadow of a love that left. Red wine spills like old blood, bottles lined up like gravestones of the past. From his head, green smoke churns, weaving the silhouette of a once-beloved now just a wound burning amidst the shards of delirium.
Rodeyo
