Phonograph

The front door opens into an airy living room. You can walk through to the back porch ahead. The white curtains sway romantically as the ocean breeze wanders in and out again. There is the faint sound of a crooning female voice that accentuates the air. It’s a lonely tune, a perfect complement to the house itself. The chairs at the dining table have been sat in, as are the ones in the back porch. There were people here, a painter and a man with half a face. There was the painter’s husband and their baby boy.

It is a haunting dream, one that follows ever so often. These marks go deep into the bone, they pierce the soul. They are ghosts of a time gone, remnants of those forgotten. It is a place where the self resides indefinitely, as nothing less would do. It is where the heart realizes its supreme loneliness. Here lie the trappings of a conscience laid bare as the phonograph spins round and round. Like the rose that buds and blooms and fades and falls away, she sings.

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