A country of ghosts, a city of shadows - shadows of someone's memories, someone's hopes and dreams. In the morning the fog drops, hiding the essence of the space around. And in an hour, three, five, cool shades of gray will hide behind a rich palette of color overflows, which, like people, blended in one plane of time and place. Here the eternal morning, and the future, it seems, is no more than 100 feet away.
In this country, it is impossible to live apart. Escaping from the existing systems of human interactions, you create your own, in which you are a tiny grain of sand on the beach. Events of a national scale do not happen to you - they are always somewhere near, and you still become their unwitting participant. All that you are allowed to do is to pass the external impressions through the internal filter, trying to understand what is happening, trying to see yourself in someone else.
It's not someone else getting on the train to leave his homeland forever - it's you getting into the last car of the departing train. It's not someone else walking, completely drenched, along the dark avenue into the night or out of it - it's you going. You go, because you cannot act differently. Everything around - it's all you. The variability of your future totally depends on the number of the unused frames of the film in your camera.
When the morning is over, the day will pass and the evening will come, you can stand on the top of the hill, cast your gaze down to the city, and see that somewhere in the endless string of lights there is a window in which you are awaited and welcomed. And there, in the distant avenue, the lights of a thousand cars blink. Who knows, maybe those are the flashlights of a trolley bus that will take you to your window? The city is breathing, and you are a part of it.
