Into the wee hours, they tried to convince me of songs. Czech songs, all in a way or another connected with the history of this theatre collective out here somewhere near Melnik. That'd be a corker, they said, if you'd be playing one of them some day.
"Schlaftrunk?", Martin asks. "Schlaftrunk!", I do reply, not the first time during this last evening. And then we're listening to that song about the man, that artist, waking up in the bed of a lady in Olomouc... At least that's what I understand from Mirka's explanations.
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