The foot is heavy, the rain brings out an earthy smell, vision is clear and the bitter taste of ale lingers on my tongue.

So much more than tar, this pathway made of purest black leads like a neatly drawn and endless border between saturated green on the right and a greyish brown wilderness of plants and weeds for whom the water came to late to the left all the way to the horizon.

A bit further down the road, a grown man is rocking on something that is clearly intended to be used by children, the expression on his face proof that solitary confinement need not mean finding oneself in a small, enclosed space. The emptiness and the endlessness of the pasture, the calm serenity, the desolation – they all render whatever living thing has lost its way onto it deeply sad.

And yet, with air so crisp that with each deep-drawn breath the mind can draw the contours of ones lungs, the possibility of a fresh start appears at the surface of what seems to be a lake so long unstirred that its surface has over time been entirely covered in green – a green far bleaker and less vibrant than that of the saturated grass that could have been the reflection seen on it by a happy figure in a much more life-filled time.

A scene so overly irritating all other senses that the void left by the complete silence which reigns so supreme not even my heavy-footed walking makes an impression on this black, wet tar that would be strong enough to provoke even the faintest sound.

A scene which drowns out everything else.

But a fragment of a whole.

A piece. Ill-fitting. Left there. Just like that.

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