It seems that time cannot be bought, but such a belief disappears when I find myself in a flea market.
Standing near a small blanket, which the merchant laid right on the asphalt and laid out old items from his closet on it, I see how time moves above the surface of the earth.
It flows from old badges to old coins, winds around penknives, with which, forty years ago, someone sharpened a pencil to correct a deuce in his diary, slips past old, wrist watches that have not heard the sound of tick-tock and hides in a small, gilded flask, the purpose of which can only be guessed at.
Time, as a rule, is history, and one could learn a lot about these items if the junk seller were not a dealer who bought somewhere very cheaply to sell this historical rubbish to tourists dearly.
Photos taken with a Sony Cyber-shot DSC-HX300 camera.
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