It is winter now. I feel quiet and vivid. The talk I hear seems to be the talk of long ago. Peace. Struggle. And everybody waiting. Is it all only another illusion, a dream from which we never wake? It has been years since those days. There is still something burned out in me from those days. Yes, I have adapted myself, ten-till-eight, the office desk and years have passed.
Here the trees are withering with winter again. The cars roll smoothly along the streets, and in the winter twilight the air, light and soft, is like an old benediction of a time long ago, and the twilight seems to hold a secret we will never know.