The tune of sorrow speaks of tomorrow in a lampshade casting light on a dark empty street. The sign of defeat painted on the feet of a beggar. His brown coat floats over worn boots; the roots of poverty. His footsteps speak a tale of pale bones that lie lonely in the middle of the road. A young fool goads the old man to a duel of words hung on the cords of electricity hanging across the globe. Beneath the old man's robe is a pen, rusty and covered in a layer of dust. The young man's pocket held a pencil stolen from the school repository.