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Behind the bright, but now seeming mockery of orange and yellow wings, where laughter and fun usually reign, he sits. Not just a clown, Max, whose name was once associated with the most vivid performances in the Circus of Dreams. Today, his makeup, usually intended to evoke smiles, seems like a mask of tragedy frozen on his face. The white has peeled off, black lines have flowed, like real tears mixed with sweat.

The orange hat, always so cheerful, is now pulled low over his eyes, hiding a look full of despair. His hands, in the same bright orange gloves, usually masterfully juggling or distributing balls, now hang awkwardly. One of them props up his chin, but this is not a pose of thoughtfulness, but rather an attempt to hold up a heavy head full of dark thoughts.

What brought him here, behind this screen, into this darkness behind the bright wrapping? Perhaps the applause has died down, the laughter no longer rings true, or he is simply tired of being the one who brings joy when there is nothing but emptiness inside. He sits on a cold, concrete bench that seems to symbolize his alienation from the bright world beyond the wall.

In his hand, hidden under his jacket, or perhaps lying nearby on the bench (but not in sight, so as not to be too obvious), is something small and shiny - not an ordinary prop, but something that can put an end to his "performance". It could be a blade, or a vial, or even just a ridiculous clown weapon - like a broken bubble tube, which he considers a last resort.

The bright background, which at first glance seems like a fiery sunset, may in fact be the spotlight shining through the cracks, reminding him of a world he can no longer bear. He stares into space, his thoughts spinning around how to end this performance, how to remove this mask that has become his prison.

He is not looking for attention, does not want to be seen at this moment. This is his personal tragedy, unfolding in the shadows of a bright but indifferent world. He just wants the curtain to fall forever.