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Description
A place of remembrance; a trigger to recall events an eternity ago. Children
dancing in the mushy leaves under the trees, chasing them, trying to catch up
with them as the breeze whirls them up in the air and sets them down again.
They never caught any; the wind was just too clever and quick for them.
Beautiful, he thought. The sun's oxydated light flooding, reanimating the pale
spring evening. The sermon of angels, blown aloud on a thousand golden
trumpets, from here to infinity.

A lonesome man on an old bench in the park with his thin white hair waving in
the winter wind. A short butt of a handrolled cigarette hung from his left lip
corner and curled up as the man smiled. The bench, probably still a little
younger than the man, partially shed itself of its painted pale-olive skin over
the years.

It started to rain - as the minutes passed, the drops grew bigger and heavier,
gently touching down from the heavens. He just sat there for a while, inhaling
the serenity and peace deeply whilst the rain beat as drums on his coat. It was
twilight now, and the children had all run off to catch supper at home. With
shaking hands the man took off his glasses to wipe the drops from them before
they would freeze onto the steel rims. Squinting his eyes, making the wrinkles
in his weathered skin considerably deeper, he tried to make out the figure
walking towards him from the distance.

I saw him sitting there; cold and alone. I walked to him and sat down next to
him. Bewildered he stared into the darkness creeping in overhead. In silence we
looked at eachother and nodded. We both understood what we meant to say. No
words shall stain this moment.

:: written by *aap ::

___

my sincere thanks to *aap for writing the wonderful text above!
and thanks to *fritsch for coming on tour with me.

___

2 photos stitched together manually
adjusted curves to lighten it somewhat

comments and critique are welcome.

Description
A place of remembrance; a trigger to recall events an eternity ago. Children
dancing in the mushy leaves under the trees, chasing them, trying to catch up
with them as the breeze whirls them up in the air and sets them down again.
They never caught any; the wind was just too clever and quick for them.
Beautiful, he thought. The sun's oxydated light flooding, reanimating the pale
spring evening. The sermon of angels, blown aloud on a thousand golden
trumpets, from here to infinity.

A lonesome man on an old bench in the park with his thin white hair waving in
the winter wind. A short butt of a handrolled cigarette hung from his left lip
corner and curled up as the man smiled. The bench, probably still a little
younger than the man, partially shed itself of its painted pale-olive skin over
the years.

It started to rain - as the minutes passed, the drops grew bigger and heavier,
gently touching down from the heavens. He just sat there for a while, inhaling
the serenity and peace deeply whilst the rain beat as drums on his coat. It was
twilight now, and the children had all run off to catch supper at home. With
shaking hands the man took off his glasses to wipe the drops from them before
they would freeze onto the steel rims. Squinting his eyes, making the wrinkles
in his weathered skin considerably deeper, he tried to make out the figure
walking towards him from the distance.

I saw him sitting there; cold and alone. I walked to him and sat down next to
him. Bewildered he stared into the darkness creeping in overhead. In silence we
looked at eachother and nodded. We both understood what we meant to say. No
words shall stain this moment.

:: written by *aap ::

___

my sincere thanks to *aap for writing the wonderful text above!
and thanks to *fritsch for coming on tour with me.

___

2 photos stitched together manually
adjusted curves to lighten it somewhat

comments and critique are welcome.