NOISE

Moribund is the street. Old, withering away in places, like an old torn black raincoat, once-upon-a-time-brick-red roofs cover falling apart houses that line the street. The houses go with the whole mood of the street- moribund.

It's snowing. If you walk into the street from the end that marks the boundary between the dead and the depraved, you'd see a hill in the distance, located some distance off the edge of the inhabited part of earth. To make it more clear, as you exit the street, you cross grey ground- this part of the frame marks the death of sunshine. You cross this grey ground, ground that is wounded by impingements of morbidity in the form of small dugouts here and there, and reach the edge. There, across a valley, lies the hill.

As you can most probably tell by now, I am not going anywhere with this.