The strangerís standing in the wasteland, like a dream, he looks, but doesnít see, only feels and hears drops of rain.
But eyesight is slowly clearing up for him to see: on the moist soil, that will soon dry again, there are tens and hundreds digging trails. And this stranger realizes, these are others like him, buried alive, cast away, voiceless and alone.
Who of them have awoken, there, hidden from the sun? Who of them will understand what has happened to them? Who of them are still alive?
I am walking through silver greyish fields and staring in the blackish sky. I can only hear the steps of mine and can only see dust and stones and the endless abyss thatís above.
There is no rain, no snow, no whiff, there is nothing. There is no joy, no grief, no wrath, there is nothing.
I pick up a stone and throw it. If I hadnít picked, it wouldíve stayed there forever. And should I pick it not, it would stay where it fell forever. Also this, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this stone. ...