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It was December. The snow was falling and, slowly, covering the inner sides of Wien. Only few people were facing the cold wind on Sitegenstrasse. The Fizz Bar were the only warm open place for kilometers. The room represented the typical german-coffee house, dark, full of cigarettes and lonely people. The same grievous image who inspired the mysterious bodies in Schiele's Secessionism. We ordered one long and watery coffee to the carefree barman who gave us a beer. A modern jukebox, more similar to a PC, was interrupting the silence, playing random songs chosen by someone between the clients for just 50 cents. The saddest client, in particular, sit in front of the bar counter, seemed to be an huge fan of The Police. Every two or three songs you could see him getting up from the stool, searching some coins with his small hands in the elegant coat, touching the keyboard with attention and let the voice of Sting filling the space. He cheered with his glass, challenging us to change music. In any case it was more similar to an exam than a threat. His eyes were pointed on us while we browsed on the screen the list of those billion of unknown artists. Between the strangers we chosen our image of this cold House of the Rising Sun. Our heads were moving, ordering the third beer, smoking the umpteenth cigarette and when the saddest one, from afar, offered us one shot of vodka, we didn't know his story and so it remained. His face was tired and red for the cold and for the alcol, but he liked our selection. Someone else in the bar, from an invisible angle, clapped for a little while. Two more clients entered smiling to the barman and started talking. The woman and her Martini moved close to the Jukebox. Nada started singing to everyone's amazement and the woman begun to dance with his companion. This new feeling of hilarity brightened up the Fizz Bar with a new light while the sad man seemed unconfortable. Before leaving the sad man chose his last song, kissed the woman on her white cheeck and greeted us with an elegant hat gesture. - When the children comes, parents must go - The Barman said to us. - The boss might have loved your songs, he never let strangers decide.