Note: This is written in a different language, so I couldn't translate one word that doesn't exist in english.We say something like 'harsh Sun' when it's cold, but sunny. So I used that expression.
Is what I’m hearing an overture? It’s a melodic sound, but lacks crescendo. Some scores give a hint that the rhythm might change. Will it be obvious in a minute? Will I ever find myself in the middle of the Hungarian Dance, remembering the times I spent spinning around during the monotonous prelude?
As I write these words, I find it harder and harder to ignore the red glare in the corner of my eye. Although I usually enjoy playing endurance games with myself, this time I cast a glance and fixate it on the red light behind an open glass door. Rays make a distorted shape, with the fence's sharp shadow elongated towards the floor. Warm colour, cold structure - it resembles a fauvistic painting. Ice spreads through my vertebrates, across my neck, lips, eyes and deeper. I can't look at anything else. The minute-hand is frozen. I can't tell if the Sun, whose rays have engrossed me, is rising or setting, just as I can't decide if it is the Sun's harshness that froze me, or is it my own. If I'm sure of something, if this disappearance of time is just a temporary glitch, it is that once the hand starts ticking again something will change fundamentally. I want to see if it's really the rising Sun that lightens the wall, or my gut is right and the red marks are cast by a gory, burning city. If only I could move.