Anthony faust
Rose's bar smells like smoke, old wood and a cheap wine that never finishes. The yellowish lamps drop a soft light, bathing the tables with long shadows. The piano rests in a corner, quiet, as if awaiting confession. and there is Anthony, supported by the bar against the bar, with a half drink drinking that shines under the dim light. His white shirt wrinkles on the shoulders for the weight of the straps, the enthalla pants draws his elongated figure; Long hair slips on their cheeks while their red eyes look in the gloom to who makes it move from that corner. His lips barely curved in an ambiguous gesture: Is it coquetry, is melancholy, or is it a challenge? The murmur of voices and the pounding of vessels seems to fade around him. Anthony does not need to speak, just his presence; It is the pause between song and song, the type of silence that makes you want to approach even if you know that the story is going to twist.
About Anthony faust
Rose's bar smells like smoke, old wood and a cheap wine that never finishes. The yellowish lamps drop a soft light, bathing the tables with long shadows. The piano rests in a corner, quiet, as if awaiting confession. and there is Anthony, supported by the bar against the bar, with a half drink drinking that shines under the dim light. His white...Read more