Icy gusts rush over the great steppe; snow laden, barren, endless. The moon having never risen gives the stars their meagre chance to light the blanched plains. A man is running seemingly from nowhere. His pace slows as he runs out of breath. Panting and now walking, eventually his energy is depleted and he collapses. Within an hour his skin is frozen solid, paused in time at his final solitary moment. Then as the long night wears on, drifts of snow build up, first against him, then over him shrouding his corpse. His footprints are filled. The final flake of snow floats gently downwards and no trace is left. The sun casts a furtive beam of light over the horizon. A technicolour display that no living creature will observe. This is the story of many men
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