Prolonged drowsy interminable winter, dilemmas and debts and rigid bitter realism, frozen immovable remote reverberations soundlessly echoing through time like omnipresent gallows for some, casual laissez-faire cocktails for others, a small town in Anatolia, a consciousness of place, order, balance, predictability, the insertion of divergence, glacially counterbalanced, from whichever side, whatever predicament, interred for the ages, contradiction's fertile sum, punishment to reward, thoughts eloquently marooned, the snow is falling, confiscated tempests, every point will be made, an old man wandering blindly, his dominion staggeringly glazed, fissured, crumply.
When challenged he preaches.
He has done no wrong.
According to his will, which vainly asserts his blights.
Proven through the narrative's conception.
Of unyielding irrational control.
The darkness of men's souls.
To say, "Be a man at all costs. In a domain ruled by men."
There's a powerful scene, epic in its isolated rustic nocturnal candour, which expresses the rationalities of these mad oppressive entitlements.
Wait for it.
Viewing, it's like you're in the village, present at these conversations, living these lives, freezing, because of their patient plodding conversions.
Thinking.
Finding things to do.
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