That’s pretty much all Anzolo did. He ate, he played his flute, and he slept. Anzolo abjured occupation, he avoided company, and tried to find a quiet place where he could play his flute— locked in his room, squatting under a bridge, sitting on the sea wall, leaning on a pillar in the cloister of a church if he could slip in unnoticed. Anzolo wasn’t a conversationalist, he wasn’t a good worker, he wasn’t a performer. He just wanted to play his flute.