It was the owner of the old-old shop with gramophones who knew that the work of all his life has turned to be very unprofitable. But in addition he was well aware of that cabinet doors of his shop stores somebody's secrets, mysteries and whispers. Each night, during the darkest hour which is followed by the dawn, when even lonely silhouettes walking with non sober step, dissapeared from the reflections of his windows, he looked at all those treasure from his cupboards, blowing off dust particles.
Each morning after a short nap he sliped on the mask of hypocrisy to his face and opened the gramophone shop. There were dozens of people who, by sundry reasons were there, had no idea that when buying gramophones that were, nay, not even selling, but just losing forever hidden corners of their souls.
With eyes gently made up I am gazing into the air above these rusty roofs and realise that because of fatigue I do not feel my own smile anymore. I can bite off my tongue and would not feel even a little of pain. Several hours surrounded by music spent in deep-deep thoughts. I will have a cup of naturally strong and almost frozen coffee and will have to start. A new day in the shop of gramophones, no, not them, but store of another's secrets and dreams.
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