A warm tone seeped from the speakers, Old wood paneled flee market speakers, Such quality as to make anything sound delicious. They stood 3 feet tall and sat on the floor flanking a hodge podge mess of decks and wires. Some old record cases sit cosily by they’re sides.
‘Miseries the river of the world’ reverberates through the floor reaching the head, of a horizontal man, first.
He wore a white shirt, possibly fitted or maybe he just fit it well. A thin black tie lay considerately over the shirt buttons. Black slacks or chinos covered the lower half of his body, crossed legs and bare feet. Spread eagle he covered a significant area of the floor, being tall and generous about the waste. A sincere look is painted on his face but betrayed by the stark emptiness in his eyes.
The record comes to a halt and the needle goes through its routines as it finished its business.
A tear had welled up in his left eye and drifts ear ward though unable to run the gambit of facial hair.
A silence descends over this little room now empty of life. Bags and boxes stacked by the door, duvet derobed and closet empty, A note reading “Sorry to all involved, my stuff is packed up, hope I didn’t make a mess, Sorry again.” signed.
Just the hum of the speakers remain.