James is probably Portuguese. He has no real name nor identity. He is homeless and badly battered by hard and brutal life. He is eking existence by basking on cold streets of wintery Porto. The only pleasure and companion he has is a bottle of rough spirit, which is partially hidden behind in the doorway behind him. His voice is very delicate, somehow broken and fragile. However, his beautiful tone and squeaky, whisper-like sound of his guitar, allow passing by strangers to dream about everything they miss.
He is still in the gutter, but looking at the stars.