[snowglobe post]
[shake
the
snowglobe?]
[There is a field of vivid red poppies in an ideal countryside somewhere. Poland, probably.
It is so tranquil here.]
[shake it
again?]
[The second scene is a bar, sort of, or maybe it's a restaurant. There's a sort of beehive motif going on in some of the decorations, but otherwise, it's a kind of lively place with a 1930s feeling to it. This is Alveare, but it's post-prohibition days, after being transformed into a honey specialty shop. It has a warm, homey atmosphere, in spite of its size.]
[fake snow
keeps
falling]
[The third scene suits the false snow. It is the top, rounded towers of a castle. Not a large, imposing one, but one with archetecture that might be Belgian, 19th Century, just a small one, overlooked by time. It is covered in snow, as are all the pines stretching out in every direction. It is approaching evening, the sky streaked with salmon pink. You can almost smell the trees and the snow.]
[but you
shake it
again]
[A bedroom. There's a roaring fireplace, and a brass-fixtured old lamp by the bed. The bed is rumpled, and it seems the bedclothes haven't been made or washed in quite some time.
How strange...
There is a poker by the bed, and gleaming-sharp cleaver. There are ropes tied to the headboard and footboard where someone was once restrained. It is a lot of rope, so perhaps that person was very small.
What a scene of dread. That tiny crinkle in the blanket, there, the sharpness of the tiny butcher's knife. It is profoundly lonely.]
[is it really
fake
snow?]
[The next scene is equally claustrophobic: the belly of a wooden ship, dark and full of shadows. There are supply barrels here and there, and in spite of the scene being frozen, don't you feel as if you can hear the creak of the boards? In the center, a pentacle is drawn into the floor, surrounded by alchemical texts, illuminated by a fire in a stout iron bowl.
The scene, like all the others, is strangely deserted, except - there is a shadow in one of the large support beams, just behind the little scene. No one is casting it, the shadow itself seems to be a presence all its own.]
[this time, doesn't it
look a little more
like smoke, when you
shake it? it clears
like clouds.]
[The last scene is Grand Central Station, NYC, in the 1930s.]
the
snowglobe?]
[There is a field of vivid red poppies in an ideal countryside somewhere. Poland, probably.
It is so tranquil here.]
[shake it
again?]
[The second scene is a bar, sort of, or maybe it's a restaurant. There's a sort of beehive motif going on in some of the decorations, but otherwise, it's a kind of lively place with a 1930s feeling to it. This is Alveare, but it's post-prohibition days, after being transformed into a honey specialty shop. It has a warm, homey atmosphere, in spite of its size.]
[fake snow
keeps
falling]
[The third scene suits the false snow. It is the top, rounded towers of a castle. Not a large, imposing one, but one with archetecture that might be Belgian, 19th Century, just a small one, overlooked by time. It is covered in snow, as are all the pines stretching out in every direction. It is approaching evening, the sky streaked with salmon pink. You can almost smell the trees and the snow.]
[but you
shake it
again]
[A bedroom. There's a roaring fireplace, and a brass-fixtured old lamp by the bed. The bed is rumpled, and it seems the bedclothes haven't been made or washed in quite some time.
How strange...
There is a poker by the bed, and gleaming-sharp cleaver. There are ropes tied to the headboard and footboard where someone was once restrained. It is a lot of rope, so perhaps that person was very small.
What a scene of dread. That tiny crinkle in the blanket, there, the sharpness of the tiny butcher's knife. It is profoundly lonely.]
[is it really
fake
snow?]
[The next scene is equally claustrophobic: the belly of a wooden ship, dark and full of shadows. There are supply barrels here and there, and in spite of the scene being frozen, don't you feel as if you can hear the creak of the boards? In the center, a pentacle is drawn into the floor, surrounded by alchemical texts, illuminated by a fire in a stout iron bowl.
The scene, like all the others, is strangely deserted, except - there is a shadow in one of the large support beams, just behind the little scene. No one is casting it, the shadow itself seems to be a presence all its own.]
[this time, doesn't it
look a little more
like smoke, when you
shake it? it clears
like clouds.]
[The last scene is Grand Central Station, NYC, in the 1930s.]