Some people seem to manage to live on and on on the dole, on a never-ending miraculous stream of income that enables them to live the squalor in such a way that it renders productive and artistic, which never ceases to amaze me, since it is such a high bet that anything will be just fine and that you would not die old and cold dreaming of radiators, trying to remember the taste of summers and good wine, but then, they started painting, and recording, and writing, and shouting, and even if no one was really listening, you have to concede them the merit of making such noise that some more coins fell, so they could stop to use the same tea bag thrice and even make it to Shoreditch, and not exactly on a pogo stick, as the saying goes, but then that was about a guy call Gsus, or something like that, and anyway I think I was way too drunk when I heard the story, and I thought to myself, there a short film in this, but then I too lazy, and I had to go back to the cold room to take care of them all, at which point I kinda lost track of this tirade, I think it was the fault of the snares