Snow falls lightly from the dark onto my gloveless hands, I never asked for this. Blowing on my hands with the steam of my body’s internal combustion i pause a moment, thinking. Everything is grey, like heaven has chosen to abstain from our little city. My hands seek warmth in a pocket as the snow crunches beneath my heavy feet, dragging the white away from the surface like a blight upon the dreamscape.

The narrow streets extend to the skies with building blocks of society, track marks are rare at this time. I am the only sojourner of the white surface tonight, looking to the starless sky, my freedom suspended under the night sky, i am breathless, passing from one sectioned block of night to another. Waiting, moving under the gaze of suspicious eyes. The Stasi rule these streets. Echoes, a typewriter sits vacant, using the red ink of liberation to make its plea.

Unheard. Unheard.

I write for our freedom, as the national census has stopped printing the suicide rate in our land. I write for the unheard voices, and I pass from this night into the next, waiting, echoing, breathing in memories. I pass from this life into another, taking up new, different hands, i remember those lives of the others, actors, actresses, playwrights and thieves, voyeurs, and politicians.

The heavens have chosen to abstain from our blessed little city, and the power of humanity to create grey and unknown spaces has taken hold of our once bright livelihood. Passing in the streets, i am a blight upon the snow covered heaven that the people endure. And I, I, am a blight because I long for freedom.


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