Monday, 29 October 2007

SHOT NO 11, by Bertram Karrasch

Now I sit in a house made of ice and snow, on a thick layer of sheepskin, in a warm pyjama and drink a cup of tea. The candles on the small wooden table flicker and make our shadows dance on the shiny walls.

It is absolutely quiet and peaceful in the snowhouse. The skin in the entrance hangs still now, doesn't move at all. Only a few hours ago it was thrown in to the room when a strong storm swiped across the peninsula. We had to bring the dogs in to one of the snowhouses. It was already dark outside and there was no moonlight, which could have made our task easier. ...

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