The Musicians

As in the bohemian movies you will never starr in, the group of musicians have a coffee in front of the opera theatre, waiting for the rehersal to start. They come from different countries, so languages mix up at the table, as the cigarrettes are lit and smoked. They mock director's guidances, comment past performances, laugh when they learn a new local joke. If you look at them from the outside, they don't look much different than any other people, but if you get closer and search carefully in their faces, you can discover the light that brights from truly happy human beings. Because they know that, when they go to work, a warm familiar instrument, old wood and strings, cold metal and keys, is waiting for them to create magic. Their ordinary exercises are creativity and sensibility at its purest form, and years of sacrifice and technique allow them to express emotion and passion. Their job is beauty, their task, momentarily infinite. They don't confront life as a plain and painful sucession of bareable days, but a chance to improve and enjoy what they love most. And they know, as they perceive for a second the desperate sales girl dressed in her dark business clothes, that this is priceless.

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