“He doesn’t just think outside the box; he picks four boxes,
takes the bottom out and sticks the sides together to make a new box.”
When the sun rises over the sparkling frost in the East the night sky had hardly disappeared. As if all the stars fell out the sky to glimmer in the daylight, just to rise again as the day disappears once more into nothingness.
While the rickety train gently swayed along the shores of Lake Baikal, a middle-age pregnant woman finds her heart lost between page 43 & 44. Her hands brushing nervously over the stained paper – as it is the fashion of two souls in one body – there was still three hours until her destination would rise out of the early morning smoke. Now and then she’d feel a twitching in her abdomen, from the journey, or perhaps the wakening of life, amongst worn leather benches, faded lino and a history yet to happen.
What more can one do beyond the internal struggle for a faint sanity, accepting the course of reality and drawing a sharp line between what’s in one’s head and what’s flickering in front of one’s eyes ―