IV. if only my heart had a home

He looks around the chamber, stony and vaulted, the very bowels of L'Opera Populaire. The young woman left him some time ago, and he is cold and wet from stumbling through the subterranean tunnels.

He drips water onto the rocky ground, the teardrops of an old life.

His eyes are wide; the rough mask in his hand is forgotten. He cautiously calls out, but there is no response save his own voice echoing back at him from untold cavernous hideaways.

Here in the darkness shall be his new home, a place where he need not wear a mask.