A new-fallen snow. The painful silence of an anechoic chamber it sponges up the sounds of the city, save one. The haunting whistle of the two o'clock train. Sounding off more often now.
Last week that train killed a man. It beat the Afghani refugee in a race. Delivering pizza up the hill. A judgement. I distanced myself from that pain. But. That was his second job. And, his wife, seven children will never forget. While the city below my escarpment view seems to take it all in stride. A thousand smaller dramas eclipse it. The man was an artist. A painter. His children hold his brush now. Ever more. His work done.