For a moment, he allows himself to dream. Of the fame and fortune his Cloud Atlas Sextet should have brought him in life, of the proof it should have given his Pater - that he indeed amounted to something. Dreams of his symphony being played by an orchestra in famed concert halls all around the world, bowing before applause and becoming the greatest composer of his generation. What if it was engraved on records to be adored by the whole world?
But that's not to be, never will be. He finished writing it though, and his greatest reward was death. The Cloud Atlas reached inside him and dug him out until there was nothing left but the shell.
He knows, even if his name stirs nothing in the foggy depths of his mind. Doubts that it's his real name. A code name or something - he wants to say. He doesn't. Instead, he looks down at the pavement below, barely illuminated by the street lights. It gets dark early here. Good. It suits his mood.
He looks up when he hears his name and instinctively knows that Q won't join him here on the ledge. Listens. Nods slowly. Manages a sad smile. "It really is." Gripping the edge with one hand, he turns around. Better. They look alike now. Like twins scattered throughout time. "Because that is my hypotheses." It's vague, but they have time. Time measured by means of a cigarette. Or two.