…I hear the clattering of shoes in jazz and foxtrot rhythms… I catch fragments of a quiet conversation – something about love… A flat bottle of a smuggled whisky is held by a garter at a dainty knee… Sweet voice’s whisper is interrupted by the sudden burst of Tommy’s gunfire, then the roar of a sport car’s engine went off and soon faded far away…

…Now, I am hearing only the celestial white noise in the receiver. No, there is a rustling sound of a silk dress… Then a clavichord sounds, and a lute is accompanying it… Someone with a sharp beard smelling of fragrant tobacco is telling, in an unknown language, the marvellous stories about distant lands and the incredible beauty of the mysterious flower named tulip…

…The lobster is lying on a silver platter on the centre of the luxurious Dutch table representing a symbol of prosperity and welfare of those glorious times when ships almost sank under the weight of their cargo of spices and gold and artists were able to create wonderful pictures… Alas, their masterpieces are turning into ghosts…

… A nocturnal butterfly is sitting on the corner of the table with a black and white photo of “The Last One Who Knew How to Paint” on its wings…

I am carefully putting the lobster phone’s receiver back in its place and making the last brushstroke over the shell of the ancient animal. And now it is starting to turn into a ghost…