During the period of the shortest, sleepy winter days, caught on both sides in the furry, crepuscular edgings of morning and evening, as the town branched its way, ever deeper and deeper, into the labyrinths of the winter nights, to be called back and shaken to its senses only by a fleeting dawn – my father was already lost, sold, pledged to the other sphere.
il. to The Cinnamon Shops by B. Schulz