Attention: each "~♪♪♪~" sign is a link to the song that the character is performing.

I tore another page from the drawing block, scrunched it up, and threw it away. Drawing plants was certainly not for me. Plants are just a bunch of chloroplasts and other elements which names I don’t remember. And that’s it. I can’t express anything else when it comes to plants. They are more dead and boring, than any other unanimated thing. I’d rather draw this dull still life which is a part of classes for the beginners.

For example a bottle. Empty, ordinary, glass bottle. Seems like it’s nothing special. You can even call it boring. However, such bottle stirs my imagination way more than these green weeds. I’ve got a really important question, connected with the bottle: ''What is its history?'' The answer may be very surprising. Maybe it was a bottle of milk? The same as the ones that thirty years ago had been delivered to houses and left on doormats. Or maybe the bottle was full of liquor? Such conclusion leads us to a few associations. All-night party, pieces of broken glass all over the place, and in the middle of this chaos – our bottle, one of a kind, since it hides countless secrets and we can only guess if our conclusions are right. But maybe it was really a bottle of milk? Caring hand of mother might have left here this bottle, after she gave drink to her offspring. In my mind’s eye I can see children their lips and eating sandwiches. Surely, the bottle might have been empty from time immemorial. There is a layer of dust on its bottom and surface, and the bottle itself is dreaming about the past, when it was useful for people. These are thoughts and imaginations that I’ve got in my mind when I look at this ordinary bottle, while drawing it, putting on paper its mysterious history.

But a flower? Just a plant, I can’t look at it in any other way. In a garden or on a table – it doesn’t matter. It’s still a flower, useless creation of nature. I mean… I do know that flowers don’t exist without a reason and have their own function. Pollination, bees and things like that. Even though I tended to sleep during biology lessons, I’ve got the minimum of the general knowledge. What I try to say, is that flowers are completely useless for my artwork. They don’t bring anything new to my drawing, because they do not have any remarkable story to tell. They happily live in a garden, talking with bees and other flying stuff. Then somebody cuts them, put in a vase and after a week the flowers are gone. How can I draw them as something really interesting?

I threw in the air another paper ball and put away my pencil, as an act of capitulation. I stood up and walked up to the table. I flatly grasped vase full of freshly picked flowers, that was standing there, and threw it to the bin in the kitchen. It was my little rebellion. I won’t draw something that is not worth it. I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven p. m. ''How can it be so late? I have to hurry!'' came to my mind, as I put the kettle on, in order to make some tea. I started to tap on the worktop with my fingers, impatiently waiting for the water to be ready.

I garbed myself with a sweater, because autumn was already visiting parks and forests, and evenings became a cold forecast of winter. Equipped with a mug of steaming tea, I headed to the living room. I opened a big window and sat comfortably on a window ledge, which was my favorite place in a whole flat. Filled with cushions, it became my area of dreams and thoughts. ''Were you thinking about your future, while looking at the charming window view?'' you may ask, but the answer would be: 'No.' The only view from my window was an old and ugly tenement house, the same as the one I lived in. Flaky plaster, rusted drainpipes and mossy roof, that’s all when it comes to my charming window view. Nevertheless… day by day I’d open my window, sat with mug of tea, surrounded by cushions, and looked intensively at the neighboring tenement house. Now you may consider me as an enthusiast of an ancient architecture. Or, what is even more funny, as a ert, who has nothing better to do, than to peek at his neighbors’ dirty little secrets. Well, the second conclusion is almost correct. Almost.

I took a sip of hot drink and fixed my eyes on the window in front of mine. It was wide open. The paint on the window-sill was flaking off, and the interior of the flat was fading into darkness. I looked at my watch. Five to seven. I sighed impatiently and leaned back on cushions. Suddenly, I stood up again, as I realized that I’d forgotten about something important. After equipping myself with another drawing block and pencil, I was ready to fix my eyes on the neighbor’s window again.

At that very moment the clock struck seven and I could see a slight movement in the middle of the room that I was observing. I smiled to myself. Punctuality of my neighbor was still unbelievable.  Suddenly, the room became bright with light hanging from the ceiling, and I could see the visible part of my neighbor’s bedroom. Walls painted in warm color of Spanish tangerines, without any decorations, and dark, oak door, leading to the rest of rooms. Incomplete view of wooden wardrobe and desk, partly hidden behind the window-sill. A big mirror next to the door. I glanced at the whole room, checking if everything is still on its place, but I didn’t notice any changes from the last evening. Finally, I looked at the person that had just appeared in the room.

A slender boy, with a long, brown, pinned back hair and eyes hidden behind the curtain of fringe, stood in the middle of the room, face turned into my direction. For a brief moment he wasn’t moving, staying still, having his eyes fixed on an undefined spot. I adjusted my sitting, made of countless cushions, and took another sip of tea. After a minute or two, the boy sighed. He took a beautiful, wooden violin into his hands, and gracefully put it under his chin. He closed his eyes and for a few seconds nothing was happening. The boy looked as if he is greeting his friend, imbibing violin’s closeness. I was observing everything calmly, knowing that in this case patience is priceless. Finally, the boy assumed the proper position and softly put bow on the strings of the instrument. I moved closer to the window, almost leaning out of the save edge of the sill. I was curious what repertoire the boy had chosen for today. Melodies played by him could be happy and sad, energetic and gloomy. Sometimes they fulfilled my heart with peace, the other times they made me nervous. The mysteriousness and unpredictability were the reasons why I sat on my window ledge day by day, just to become the only one spectator of this unusual concert.

~♪♪♪~

The boy knitted his brows, as he moved the bow through the strings, once, twice, bringing out calm and buoyant melody. Sounds seemed to be flowing from his window, straight to my ears, creating an amazing scene right before my eyes. I could see a room flooded with sunshine, full of people who were listening to the music enthusiastically. In the middle of the room the violinist was standing, fully absorbed by his instrument. I was sitting in the crowd, jiggling to the rhythm, letting myself to be carried along by this light and bright melody. At the same time, I put my drawing block on my knees and started sketching. Room, chairs, guests and him, musician with his instrument like with his best friend. I’m not a connoisseur of music. I can’t remember all these complicated names of sonatas. Rhythms and keys are abstract concepts for me. However, there was something in the neighborhood boy’s play that moved my imagination every single time he performed, creating pictures worth putting them on paper.

I peered at my sketch and, satisfied with the result of my work, put the drawing block away, deciding to perfect my artwork later. I leaned my chin on my hands and fixed my eyes on the opposite window, engrossed in the sounds flowing from there. The piece was so simple that even to my unprofessional  ears it seemed to be just an exercise for the beginners. Nevertheless, the boy was playing with such precision and concentration that he brought from the song a new deepness, inaccessible for the amateurs, who have just started they violin adventure. I rubbed my cold hands together, as the chill of winter was merciless, but I didn’t even think of closing the window. Never before had I done it during the concert, always waiting for the violinist to finish his performance. I touched already cold mug with my lips, but sadly there was no more tea inside. Disappointed, I put it away. The last notes of the piece were played and the deathly hush fell. Sounds of the city, still awaken and lively, were fast bursting into this silence, taking possession of it. I watched as the boy put his instrument on its place gently. Then he disappeared from my field of view, heading to the other part of his room, always hidden behind the window-sill. After a few minutes the light was turned off and I couldn’t see anything else in the darkness of my neighbor’s room.  I sighed silently, just like I did every night.

While falling asleep, I had the buoyant melody in my ears and the room flooded with sunshine under my eyelids. I was dreaming about a slender violinist, gilded by his music.

***

I was suddenly awaken by a coughing fit. I abruptly took a breath, trying my best not to suffocate to death. Damn. I shouldn’t have left the window opened for whole night. Havi