So Here We Are

[poeta_tenore]

And here is a man in his early thirties, feeling as dejected as he looks.  His chin is covered with a dark, fine stubble, his hair mussed.  He's not all dressed to impress, wearing a long drab brown coat, and equally drab scarf and fingerless gloves.  His fingers, which are red with cold, are clutching a few papers tightly.  And only just now does he look up from the ground to discover that he is not in Paris any longer.

Typist: I present Rodolfo from La Boheme.  As far as I've been told, operas are totally on limits, so, ta da. <3