"He turns his crooked latchkey, pushes open the grubby flat door, these days living quietly all alone, no one wants to know him anymore. Collapsing into his greasy armchair, he takes another swig from the lager can, coughs as he inhales thick tobacco smoke, he's a worn out, broken old man. Losing his steady job, many years ago, spiralling into depression, the poor man reached his all time low. On his knees at rock bottom, so lonely he felt down there, but lying in a drunken stupor, he doesn't really care. Now people don't want to listen, when he sometimes tries to speak, they quickly walk on past him, as if he is some kind of freak. There isn't a person out there, that he can honestly call a friend, he's just a Mr Nobody, until his miserable end."