Somewhere in Budapest they forgot to close a pub. No one had an eye on turning it into a gold mine. Maybe because it's in the wrong place. It's not well endowed. It has no potential.

 

It was just left there, forgotten. With people in it. With people. They were forgotten too. They didn't even notice. Maybe they don't have the right gifts either.

 

They talk, they talk, they talk. When they get tired of talking, they sing. Maybe the language of music will make the time pass faster. Maybe the light will come sooner, and you can tell it's getting closer to evening.

Because then maybe it will get better. It used to be better.