His name was Francis Thompson, and of all the lonely and obscure men who lived in London that year of 1887, none had made his bed in hell more surely than he. For him, each night was a lying down in hunger and fear. Each morning, a slow awakening on the Thames embankment, to pain, a remembrance of dreams made hideous by fear, twisted by hunger. To keep hearing the words "sorry, no work for you." is a scourge that can lash a man's spirit, so you have to keep walking and keep searching...