Behind the stained window, a small pale face looks out, into the sunshine sweeping the landscape, scattering shadows in an endless struggle with the clouds.
     I am sitting behind the window and looking out into the rain. Muddy strains tumble along imprevisible paths until they fade from my view, they simply vanish out of existence, what I do not see does not exist anymore.
     There are trees among the hills, old trees, tiny ones; trees you call trees only because there is no alternative left.
     Today I am not in a mood for epic battles, armies, grand schemes, beauty.
     So I only see rain soaking the earth. I wish I could hear the soft sound of the drops when they reach the end of their fall; they splatter, and then, they are no more, yet they make a wonderful sound. Soothing music, if I would just stand up and open the window I could actually hear.
     But of course it rains in my lonely imagination only; a powerful sun shines outside and bathes everything in a golden glow, as a result I see nothing at all.
     No heroes today. No heroes for me.