6pm, slowly moving on. Submerging in local culture, art and history. Discovering ancient tales and contemporary imitations. A few steps further: The silence of humble, small churches, in a surprising and friendly way devoid of all the golden glamour seen elsewhere. Scent of centuries captured in between wooden benches. (Pondering values, confessions, spirituality. Especially in face of a rough mountain nature.)
Early evening. A moon. An open sky. And a setting sun. The quiet in these hours. // 366skies
Mornings. Veiled sun. Little clarity. Still waiting for the light to move in. // 366skies
9pm and on. Restarting heavy machinery. Cold hours, late days. Standing in the backyard, trying to reach for the grey sky almost touching the evergreen fir. Years later, all size becomes more relative in here. (Waiting for stars to get stuck im the tree. Or at least more snow.)
These silent skies.
6pm and on. A quiet evening to follow a quiet day. Not thinking once or even twice about things left unaccomplished to now. Pondering silence, inward reflection, guilt, familiar unsafety. Sometimes even words feel difficult and threatening.
9pm and slowing down. Tired and loaded with new images and stories. Listening to old songs for a moment, as if to live through the moods it used to evoke, once again. Still wondering whether this will work out. Meanwhile, the city's stumbling into Sunday night. Loud voices keep on chatting and laughing below on the sidewalk. The bar is still opened, has inexpensive drinks and maybe ice cream to offer but no music today. Few stars, no clouds, an endless sky and a few early seeds to grow dreams of, before a new week starts.
Fortgeschrittener Abend, zwischen Wäschekeller und Hinterhof. Regen verstummte, Mond schläft noch, für einen Augenblick gleitet der Blick nach oben dorthin, wo Wolken den Kosmos und die Sterne verhüllen und Scheinwerfer von irgendwo Unleserliches schreiben. Nachhall der Woche in Gedanken, ein Knäuel loser Enden in der Tasche, so kratzig wie bunt. Auf der Terrasse über der Haustür werden Tisch und Stühle zusammengeklappt, die Luft kühlte ab, schmeckt nach Laub und Wasser und Beton und Bier. In allem schwingt Nacht.