Gothic descripton.

White emerging from greyness – sadness, turning into the white, bright sky. Unreachable, too far.

Below, wee black bodies are queueing down the thinnest path to enter.

Trees like shadows, leafless. Remaining branches seem to be trying to reach the Tower, maybe they are hoping it would return to them their vitality and strength to stand straight and proud like the Tower itself? Grow some leaves? No – no coulours and signs of a better, lively future are needed in this picture.

Wee bodies are queueing by the gate, one by one, sharing the same hope. Snow is falling and creating higher walls of cold and lying whiteness as borders of the path. This White would not make them clean, but filthy with cold, wet and disease. Gate being black and Tower – white, maybe it would purify, bleach, soften those  black creatures (as snow couldn’t) into doves which could then flap their wings and fly far away from the lifeless graveyard. Away from thew snow into the sun.

The gate opens and lets the first one in. The rest hold their breath. Mr Lucky steps forward, now he cannot be seen. Loud, chaotic, violent noise goes off – the gate shuts closed. Redemption.

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