When I listen to “Gabriel’s Oboe” by Ennio Morricone, I can see an old, crushed man, huddled on a stool. His face- so lined. The stream follows the channels carved into his cheeks and nose and drip onto her hand. She lies still under the gaudy, patchwork quilt- so serene in death. “Irene, I’m alone. You promised to stay. Stay.” Wooden grief, broken frame. He bows his silver head onto the quilt while the linotype pictures silently witness his breaking. He is alone.