[music : Soeville by Roses and Branches]


Classical was how it felt。The instinct pushed to look up and to see。 The eyes found themselves where they were not meant to be。 A beautiful and light morning’s spontanity。 All is white, luminous, rich of pale sun。 Few palm trees in sight as usual in England ’ s capital。 The air had its moody coldness , the wind was mad。 What about was he mad ?

Bird here , bird there , Victorian houses – everyday ’ s picture on the way towards the tube。 Sometimes one can hear a flute to be played。 There are days a street cat  intensively seeks for human ’ s attention。 Seldom people would talk on this street。 They pass by in a typical manner for his city – shy, reserved but still acknowledging the presence of others。 Usually this block is full of silence。 Especially when the clock shows midday。

The clock  was showing midday。 The street was white and quiet。 My thoughts were all over the place about all what was seen during the first meters outside the house , high above what the day could bring and where the life is heading to。 The wish it would be a simple-mind-situation, when the brain smoothly flows , was strong。 A need for simplicity occurred by every step made this noon。

A bird , classics, look up 。 A window。Her isolated hand in the window。 This window was not  small  nor was it big。 It was a little bit less than a middle-sized one。 In the middle beautifully placed a pale-skinned hand was holding a cigarette。 A fully white cigarette。 One look up , another look up to spot the person behind the frame of that open window。 There was  no one to recognize。 There seemed to be no lady to connect with the hand。 Only dark room in the background。 The Hand was on its stage and the  world outside was the audience。

This hand was graceful。This hand was tired。 This hand was brought yesterday out。 Most likely。 The pose was showing that there was no energy left。 Only fresh air and some rest was needed。 Hands can say enormously much  if you watch them closely。 They are the second after eyes to rely on if we want to profile people。

Anonymous was this beautiful body part。 It was cut from the body due to the lights and shadows around it。 Only the hand existed and nothing else was to add or to take away from this scene。 It matched to the Victorian house。 It belonged to the fine atmosphere around it。It was radiating something aristocratic。 Was it caused by the country where the Hand was or was it because of the inner world of its owner?

The Hand was in the middle of the window and it did not move。 It was frozen。 There was no sign of tiredness in the static movement even if one could see that the hand is tired。 It was placed on the elbow with the fingers hanging downwards。 Hanging, tired but still holding the cigarette。 In its non-movement I froze  even if I was walking towards my day’s agenda。 This hand didn’t leave me cold. It embraced me warmly by being so comfortable。 There are people we meet and only by seeing them we melt。 There are hands like this where I become calm。

I am better off alone is another description of this picture。 I am better off in this silent numbness。 And there was the Sun, and there was the Hand higher than the ground, higher than everything else around。 This was high noon。


*Latin : hand








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