The pane is cool against my brow as I swiftly etch the passing world. Above, the firmament is a stage for lumbering behemoths of cloud, their bellies swollen, a promise of a deluge, though not of water. Nay, this is the harbinger of feathery drifts, of snow-laden skies. Beneath their grandeur sprawls the town, a frenetic tableau of the commonplace. Figures scurry, a veritable dither of movement, to and fro, their purpose as opaque as the shadowed alleys. Some, I imagine, hasten towards junctions of fate, moments that will cast their lives in a new hue, while others are but thralls to the soul-crushing sameness, prisoners of habit's grim decree. Yet, all of them, the destined and the doldrums alike, are caught in this swift current, a ceaseless, purposeful haste.
Stephie
The pane
© Copyright: Илья Бубнов, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125113003213
Свидетельство о публикации №125113003213
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