As his father and forbearer before, Andreas had never laid his eyes upon the motherland, through her rolling hills. Though her rolling hills were known even amongst the littered streets' dogs, Andreas had never once felt her wind's kiss upon his cheek. Though loved with all his heart, he knew not where she lay. For this reason and this reason alone, Andreas did feel a certain fear growing in his heart. As if led by a string, he gazed out the window, wondering, woken by a mare. Before him laid not what he willed, the town painted in mind, frore from winter's night, streets sprinkled white, untouched by time's might. The streets he saw, yielded to time, to steps, of hurried masses bustling to the jagged pillars, laying on hills, which coated the village in soot.
His was a dark city, littered by steeples, dedicated to sweat. His was a cold city, with a cold heart. Its masses spoke of home, of beauty, of joy, so loved, so needed and yet, never experienced. Andreas had never felt her kiss, seen her beauty, nor danced her dance, forgotten but for name. Through his window, his frame shifting to reality, a sign stood: “Unused crib, cheap.” Andreas knew, for the tales said, he should have rained, but eyes had forgotten to be clouds. Andreas knew he should have felt, but man's heart was as his abode, like the town, once in her valley, between churches of toil, his heart had grown cold.
Man lived. Man learned. Man existed. Man knew how to live. Man learned how to exist. He forgot to live. He knew to be, but forgot who. He knew to exist, but forgot why. Andreas had never known. But he felt. Bustling but hallow, the city was a monument to a failed promise.