by Saliha Enzenauer
Ian.
The nocturnal snowscape looked grey through the fog. It seemed to Ian that he had been wandering through the night for years, not feeling the cold anymore.
He remembered other lifes. Lifes in which he kept hearing the distant call while he was walking trough the distractions on his path. The voice wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard he tried to numb himself down. The voice would echo in his songs.
He remembered lifes that he had ended, unfulfilled.
Now he was in a place where everything came together, the earthly and rational world, heaven and mystery, the world of ghosts and spirits and dreams. It was the place to chase the distant call down in this center and edge of the world. The time had come…
