It was getting dark. The silence starts speaking to me in a whisper for the sake of secrecy.
Right now, the violence will start between the summer night and a brilliant moon. I sit in a corner to watch the milk spilling.
And then, after a couple of hours an anonymous call from a cuckoo in distress. Somewhere a dry twig snaps off. Something is tossed in the air. A shadow pokes at the moon to return the favour.
