King of SnowKing of Snow
A lonely bus stop. It's dark, the lantern illuminates but a small circle of leaves on the ground. The station contains a rusty bench and a little roofing. In the orange lamplight one can make out a little plant, craning its neck to the heavens, which are starlit. Attached to the roofing is the timetable, scratched and smudged, barely readable. There's only one bus stopping here, only a couple of times a day. The street is uneven and muddy from the rain of the past days, the leaves cover the path that leads to the stop. It's dark, without any lights, only trees left and right. Every once in a while there's a passing train illuminating the scene, as the road abuts the train tracks for some time.
On the bench under the roof there sits a girl, bolt upright, hands on her lap. Silence everywhere, not even the leafless trees rustle in the wind. Cold joins the silence, sneaking up from behind and, once noticed, won't vanish again. Nothing around her moves, she feels alone in the w
Nameless stations rush past, forlorn at dusk.
Trees, leafless like dead, black before the blue-gray sky.
Shapes of birds flying by, moving things across the seemingly motionless heavens.
The country changes endlessly, meaningless houses clustered to villages,
some lights like living stars pass by in a monotonously indifferent haze: Unchanging in its constant change.
(Yet again, a nameless sickly orange station, no soul to be found.)
The only thing in view that accompanies the flight are blue clouds and the dusty horizon, always present, though never to be seen. Above, a dark-blue curtain changing to torn clouds, allowing a glimpse on the crimson sky,
... like milk covered in mist.
Vanishing colours in the last light of the day illuminate the seams of objects
melting into shadows. Standing still for a moment, out of these shadows crawls living green grass, lit by window-light, shaken by such a disturbance.
Glowing in the half-light; silver train-tracks; and suddenly, just for a short et