The cacti are dying. A mouse caught in a trap. Pots and pans fill a dirty sink. Cars race down Ashland.

Bach is on WFMT. He moves his head to Goldberg Variations and lights a cigarette. The Baroque music plays softly.

Notes on a card table. Bills to be paid. Utilities not included. He stares up at the ceiling. Fan is on high. It squeaks and moans. He scratches the back of his neck. A beer bottle sweats.

Alone in his hovel, he hums to Bach. Now Saint Mathew Passion plays. Listening, he cries. Not loud, but silent. Mouth open. Drool falling to the floor. He wipes his nose on a tee-shirt sleeve. The choral arrangement consumes him. He is eaten alive.

A picture in his wallet of her. An ex-wife in Bucktown. She is blonde with green eyes. They are the eyes of a pixie. She was a fairytale who never was true. No one ever is.

The last beer is finished. He is drunk on music and alcohol. Trying to stand, he trips over his feet. Falling to the floor, he realizes this is it. No time to pray. No grace.

Bach continues on WFMT.