Behind the wooden windows, life hides. The dust on the windowsill weighs heavier than forgotten names, and the translucent curtains smell of dampness and an unfulfilled summer. The night no longer waits for dawn it slowly spreads across the walls, and now it seems that the morning died long ago.

At the bottom of reflections.. no sound, no faces, only cold that slowly caresses the soul. Here each eye is like a faded lightning, and pain is all that still remembers.