He drank a gulp of vodka and put the glass on the window sill. There was still some of the transparent liquid left. He liked to do that, watch the day beginning to break on that glass, the drink touched by sun. But it would be a long journey into the night.

He tried to distinguish the shapes of his violin in the room, he had given up the candles because of the mournful look they brought to the place, his instrument turned into a ghost.

The loudest sound heard there came from the voices of the women wandering the streets. He would like to go there, talk to them. But he knew he would never go.

When the morning came, the voices were not heard anymore. The trees were motionless under the limpid sky. There was no wind, only a presage of sun and a coloured glass of vodka.

It was only him and his violin now, and the symphony of the voices echo in the room.


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