One evening. Snow on the roofs, the pavements. A deserted city. White lights. Silence. To stop to listen to the noise of their steps. To imagine the animated streets. Or simply to dream. The absence of passers by. A city without inhabitants. A ground of end of the world. Without human beings suddenly. To go in the virgin streets of life. To seek without finding. Only between the walls with the sad lights. Snow choked their last breaths. Covered with a pretty blank paper. Remain above the traces of their steps. Last before this departure for an imaginary country where there is neither paradise, nor hell. To Go in the virgin streets of life until the moment when the lights will die out. To look at the day rising. For one according to. Where the cold will be cooking. Aggressive and violent one. To return to be heated. In the abandoned houses. With the large staircases climbing towards the tops. Where there are no more cries of children. Deserted rooms where it is heard that the wind. Slipping on the roofs covered with snow fleeing while howling. To only feel. Magic of the dream died in the guise of this shroud.
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
