As it dawned on me that the sky was not as clear as it used to be, the sunset was reaching its lowest point. I listened. They say you should be able to hear it when you hold your breath just a little bit longer than usual. So I did. And listened.

The sax beginner was wailing in a distance – he might have thought that nobody would care if he would practice his hanon on the shore. But if you look at it carefully, you would see it: the seagulls got annoyed and started to pack up. I listened.

The sky went through the whole spectrum of tones that it was scripted to go through. I was still holding my breath. The waves seemed to imitate the movement of traffic during rush hour – and emitted a similar soundscape. You asked me whether I was still holding my breath. I couldn’t answer; I was still holding my breath.

You looked at my eyes – asking whether I was okay. I nodded and pointed with my nose to the direction of the horizon.

The sax beginner finally realized that the seagulls hated his hanon – no matter how jazzy he thought the hanon was. He suddenly stopped and started to pack up as well. I felt suddenly thankful – and listened even more closely. It was getting colder. The wind blew on me but paused as it reached my full concentration.

I was still holding my breath, nodding and pointing with my nose to the direction of the sunset. You were still checking whether I was still alive. And there it was –


It was such a faint sound. Just when the last ray hit the horizon.

I caught my breath in excitement and quickly asked you, “did you hear that?”


I was still catching my breath, “the sun!”




“Bugger.” I said, stood up and left.

Romantic failure.


In a distance, the sax beginner blew his mouthpiece for the very last time.