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Rain is a blessing. Many think of it as tears of the heavens. Others see it as waters of purification. What I find in the rain is solace. Peace of mind. But this place is anything but peaceful. It exudes emptiness. Even the rain is different – icy and implacable. And then there's the silence. It cuts like a knife: to the bone, to the heart… to the soul. But my soul is already empty and desolate. And now, I'm here, all alone. I want to believe I'm alone.
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2. |
Cool Air
01:52
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3. |
Wind Rises
03:07
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The forest is quiet. Not a leaf moves in the breeze. The trees aren't rustling – they are listening. Following the path trodden by those long dead, I know everything that surrounds me is steeped in loneliness. I'm soaked to the skin. The forest is getting denser and denser. Branches tear at my clothes and cut my skin, but still I continue, filled with inner peace. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the dug-up graves. Suddenly the wind rises, triumphant. The leaves rustle violently, but I'm beyond it all. The hill awaits me, and so I go.
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5. |
Hillside
05:42
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6. |
Forgotten
02:48
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I shouldn't have come here. Shattered images of the past assault me at every turn. Broken glass; a heavy curtain drawn across a window; creaking stairs no-one used for a long time. The worst part of it is the children's room. A gust of storm knocks open a window left ajar. The shutters clatter in the wind. I notice a smashed music box. Dear God, who destroys a child’s music box? Am I getting paranoid or did I really hear someone singing? I was wrong. I'm lonely, but not alone. I shouldn't be here. This place was supposed to be abandoned.
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8. |
Letters To Nowhere
04:24
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9. |
A Small Wooden Box
02:51
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10. |
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The house on the hill. It sounds so corny, like a scene from a cheap movie. You expect to catch a flash of chainsaw or the smell of smoke at every step so that the horror story could finally begin. But it already has, and I'm in the middle of it. This pile of letters spilling out of the mailbox – messages that will never reach their recipients; the wind wailing mournfully in the attic that no-one will visit ever again; the window that will remain open for all time… And then there's the empty doghouse; the child's wheelchair – broken to pieces; the fresh grave behind the house; the smell of dust in the living room; the squeaking porch door that nobody will ever oil…
This is the house on the hill. Here it shall remain – long after I’m gone from this world.
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11. |
Longing
02:55
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Arkadiusz Reikowski Poland
Composing music is like creating shapes. By changing the view, one influences how we perceive things.
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