If you ever pass by the lanes of my mind, you will know that a corner right there gawking at you is home to a vinyl record. And if you go in close, closer;  I know you will be astounded. Yes, one record is playing and the flow is unceasing. I might be surrounded by tens of people but my mind still listens to the voices of those who' left ', these voices are trapped in that flat disc that circulates recklessly day and night and night and day. Basically, all the time. Now, it is exhausted by this perpetual activity and new voices have stacked upon . The broken sounds say that the end to this audio is impending and even though this record is my favorite one, it is falling in the death throes. A sinking; and it is gone. The same corner is filled with ashes , it's a graveyard, it 's deserted.
I yearn for the voices in despondency. I do hear them ; slowly approaching. But this time they come from the tens of people around me with mouthful of smoke that they puff while prattling on. And a faint light in the blackout from the lanterns in the either extremes of my drawing room. Lanterns ; gifted by the last person who 'left' and one of whose voices, just died.