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 aÂ hodgeÂ podgeÂ 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.Â 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.
AÂ silence descends over this little room now empty of life. Bags and boxes stacked by the door, duvetÂ derobedÂ 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.