Here is the cottage. Like the aged nursing tree, blackened by snapping winters and dry summers. The sewing machine remains at the top of the gable room. A bundle of fabrics on a moldy cardboard.
And the thimble. Evening mood in glass and frame. Curtains brushed with coarse cobwebs. The crossbar scrolls through the almanac. Someone has rushed through the sideboard and left the drawers limping behind. The brickwork is cracked, the wood stove, the kitchen’s rusty altar, stands there shackled by its weight, covered in snow from the ceiling’s paint flakes. The greenery smolders between the floorboards. Flowers that blooms for no one. Colors close next to each other. Iron objects brittle with time. Shards of light. Track. Sign. The blue sea smoke drifts between the houses. And the world disappears.