Singing Alone

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Cloistered halls. Old ghosts. Silence.

The library is to the left. Within the glass doors, a young man stands behind a desk. He is wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses, and also a long, brown braid of hair, that swings over his shoulders and as he turns, his attention is drawn downward.

A lone bicycle appears from behind one of the cloister openings, and then disappears just as quickly. The sun is fading, drawing to a close, and a patch of heavy, gray clouds sit on the roof of the world.

Quietude pervades all. The lives behind the veil are hidden from sight. The rigours of the world take forms, in the girl sitting on a block of cement, reading a book, her legs crossed as she leans back, to the man pumping his legs up the cloister to attend class. His arms swing by his side, a small black case hanging from a closed fist. He turns back and looks at me, his face for one brief moment like a stormed turned to stone - his cheeks are high bluffs, while his eyes like dangerous clouds flash in blue and white. As he walks away, his face turns away, and his eyes are drawn towards the horizon.

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