Weathered arm outstretched.
He reaches out. His wrinkled hand holds, a desperate grasp, on the joyful age of youth.
The vanity and the irony of his actions, he has no clue.
He wears his rose coloured glasses always; turning merry moments into quixotic memories of euphoria.
Slowly it slips away. The bitter old man seeks again for a link to yesterday. So Bittersweet.
A lowly drug addict, he searches, looking for his high, his ecstasy; inevitably to fall, each time deeper into the pit of despair.
He spirals into an incurable depression, a nagging melancholy, the fault of his never moving on.
He is stubborn, he is ignorant.
He is clueless, he is lost.
He is nostalgia.