He’s retired and a widower. He’s not a happy man. He drags his unhappiness about from one hour to the next. So he gazes – at the city, people, life, the world. He hears sounds, noises, voices, screams. He thinks that his happiness has only ever been an anaesthetizing cocoon. Hence, he tells himself that unhappiness is, perhaps, a source of altruism. He sees. He listens. He acts... and even commits murder.