Shout and cry out on top of your lungs, run across the end of the world, whisper in the darkness, there's no one to lend an ear, no pity or consideration of pain. The Sun will still set from the east to the west, the busy streets of New York, London, and Tokyo still have traders. The darkness is remains dim, with no regard for life. Just a voice in the crowd with no comforter, a mourner speaking out of the ground, surrounded by a crowd full of deaf ears. No slight chance of promoting solidarity. They can only look upon him with pity, some will rationalize his pain away. In a corner we see a man who use to laugh with the world, now weeps alone.
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