July 23, 2024; part one. Under the weight of the morning grayness, the poplars put on autumn foliage. The road is foggy; and the more time passed, the more the world was covered by fog. The impersonal forests were lost in his eyes. The village dogs were stretching after a night's sleep. Along the way, I met roe deer wandering alone in the wastelands, grazing horses and cows, and did not even intentionally disturb the rest of the ferret next to the river (I once saw it in early summer, in the same place). But my most faithful companions, before the fog disappeared, were horseflies.
While driving to an unfamiliar territory, I was tired. I was even more tired of fighting with melancholic thoughts that were bothersome to climb into my head, which only did what they were fueled by the weather.
