Now, alone, in his middle years, a man looks back... to the optimism, the unfulfilled promise, that he carried with him in his youth, to dreams receding and slowly abandoned, to a remembered love that came and then was lost. And life itself - life that once seemed free and endless and endlessly buoyant and hopeful - has, with the passing years, turned ordinary, prosaic, cautious and solitary. Are these the recollections of one man, looking back? Or are they the reflections of Everyman?
