it is late, there is a sound of traffic outside the open window, the excited sound of the owner of Goldies second hand shop opposite talking to an artisan who is setting up her new shop on the other side of the street. She is moving to larger premises. The bookshop has left, closed, there is no-one interested in old books any more. Like the record shop in the other street, it just folded.
There is a crowd of tourists at the end of the street, at the church, standing about with umbrella in hand, listening to the stories their guide is telling.
It is eleven, there is no sense of privacy now, the rest of the family is up, the son is furious at not having been woken, the wife is angry because there was nothing to purchase at the flea market.
The tinnitus would sound like a choir, a choir of bees, drowning everything, a scream hiding behind a steady hiss
There is a crowd of tourists at the end of the street, at the church, standing about with umbrella in hand, listening to the stories their guide is telling.
It is eleven, there is no sense of privacy now, the rest of the family is up, the son is furious at not having been woken, the wife is angry because there was nothing to purchase at the flea market.
The tinnitus would sound like a choir, a choir of bees, drowning everything, a scream hiding behind a steady hiss
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