Wet-cold early winter days and everything around me. A recently moved boulder rock blocking the garden entry. Residual dirt snow patch on the sidewalk shouts mercilessly, in painful intervals, that inattention - albeit seemingly trivial - adds up to countless lives in vain. Let me get a broom and fix this, eradicate my errors. I do not want a single soul to hurt. I rather run. Run. Run. Like a river untouched by Charon‘s rudder waves.
