Hidden away in the destitute village are pockets of things worth traveling for. Things worth looking for behind closed doors which can be opened if one possesses the means. Things such as beautiful girls with flowers in their hair, their skin an exotic golden brown unlike the pale blonde princesses of your own childhood. Things such as new flavors and textures of food, such as the a smiles of the brothers and fathers of the beautiful girls, who are neither naive of your intentions for the little girls, nor disapproving.


Power plays in a cabin faintly aglow with orange light in the snow. Intrigue and politics of an animal called human, murder as the snow melts, new generations born, on their way in the ecstasy of youth, and dead again under the eye of the sun rising and falling. You may come across a man who inhabits the cabin in your journeys. He may be out there on the perimeter of the property to gather wood for the fire, and by chance you two may lock eyes. Know that whatever notion you have of his existence is false. Know that you should be glad not to be a part of his world, and that there is no way of relating to him anyway. When your back is turned and you walk away, the way you leave the cabin, so will the cabin remain for hundreds of years hence. You may come back again in three centuries and find a very similar looking man, or perhaps a completely different man, but a man none the less, the wretched stench of humans will never leave that damned cabin.