Video Transcription
Jack was 65 years old, a body that looked like a sack of ill-cooked potatoes, the belly of it.
He hung on his belt, his flabby arms trembled in every move, the sweat.
It soaked the white shirt, leaving yellow spots under the armpits. I had arrived.
to this foreign city with the little money he had left, after he retired as a truck driver.
On some dusty road in America, I was looking for something even though I didn't know what,.