Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

the bar, one of them at one table, the other one at the other, they drank their beer and read the newspaper. And each time they’d put it back where they got it. They needed eyeglasses to read now, and they weren’t that steady on their feet. But neither of them would give the paper to the other one when he was done with it. Then they’d finish their beer, one of them would leave and the other one would leave right after. All those years, neither of them said so much as: That one sentence might have been enough. Because who knows if with that single sentence they wouldn’t have said everything they hadn’t said to each other all those years. You can fit an awful lot into one sentence. Maybe everything. Maybe a whole lifetime. A sentence is the measure of the world, a philosopher once said. That’s right, the same one. I sometimes wonder if the reason we have to say so many words throughout our life might be in order for that one sentence to emerge from among them. What sentence? Everyone has their own. One that you could utter in a fit of despair and not be lying. At least to yourself. If only you’d known the Priest. You know, the welder. I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even know what his first name was. Everyone always just said, the Priest. His first name and last name got lost somewhere along the way. You know what, you even resemble him a bit, now that I look at you. Hand “Here, here’s your paper.”

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