If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:
The only proof he needed for the existence of God was music.
Kurt Vonnegut
The sun breaks through the lush green and leaves a sparkle on the unshaven cheek of a young man who is sleeping on the red brick wall. He is disheveled, wrinkled, his collar is carelessly unbuttoned below its proper position. His musical instrument and a bottle of beer lie nearby. A disheveled musician of the same degree of dishevelment in skewed glasses is waking him and his mates up.
- Guys, put it in, let's go, we have another holiday today.
- With which bus can we get out of this hole?
- Dream high! There will be no bus today, it is Sunday. We'll catch a car.
- Look, look, there is an empty truck and only two sheeps are in the back!
- Sheeps…
- Don’t grumble, be thankful that it’s not chickens, last time I spent a week cleaning my suit of feathers!
A dusty truck stops on the side of the road with the squeal of suffering brakes. The musicians rise from the lawn, shake off the red dust, put on their hats, pick up their instruments and lazily climb into the back of the truck.
The car starts moving. The guys in the back turn their faces to the wind, to the sun and to the new day, sip beer and play tunes. They habitually follow from one strange holiday to another.
