The sky of Moscow in winter is grey. A day struggles between black and white, dark and bright, but it never achieves. The pureness seems to turn upside down. The ground is simply whitened by the accumulation of snowdrops. The buildings are flat and square, and the snow weighs on a burdened level of tolerance. People walk on the floating ground. They remain calm, a stringent facial expression, and winter extends its limit to an endless direction. Puzzling, the only indication is the reddish digital display of the degree of coldness on a cold wall of old building along the road. This is psychological therapy to warm up the heart of the pedestrian. Winter is yet over.Libellés : colour, moscow, nature, russia, self, voyage |
