...his eyes are heavy with adrenaline, stung with fear and catching the luminous crowns of the ceiling lights in them , like tiny pin-dot halos framing his quivering pupils. His tongue flicks out and brushes his dry bottom lip as he brings his stubby fingered hand up to his chin, loaded with the stubble of lost days, and drags it down framing his mouth in the slow descending V of the crook of his thumb. An eyebrow twitches and he takes the hand from his chin to smooth back a long frond of hair that has crept down from his balding scalp, now held in place by the scattered beads of sweat that had erupted on his forehead under the lights and squeezed out by the pressure of the hostile, drunken eyes that now stared at him up on his stage, the air alive with the wurlitzer reproduction big-band intro. of the song. Shuffling into the line of the screen he gazes far off behind the heads of the drinkers into some unknown horizon, his face illuminated blue on one side by the sickly light of the screen, the other a depth of shadows his eye pricked out among them by that same halo of light as he slowly growls the first line of the song 'I, I who have nothing. I, I who have no-one..'