It’s late, past midnight, and the city outside hums with muted pulse of distant car horns, the occasional shout from a drunk stumbling out of a bar, and of course the quintessential barking of stray dogs.

The pair sit at a small, wobbly kitchen table, he cradled a chipped mug of tea that had long gone cold. The silence between them is heavy, not quite tense but not comfortable either.

Llewyn’s fingers twitched, he put the mug down, his hands moved to pick at a loose thread on his corduroy trousers instead.

“That new one, about the sailor… it’s got something.”

He muttered, his brows furrowed as he begun to critique his preformance.

“Missed a chord in the second verse.”

Llewyn often tore himself apart for something no one hardly heard. It ate at him. He despised it.