Opposite worlds

In winter Indagari remembers summer, but as if in a dream, something not quite real. Reality is cold to the touch, painfully so in the mornings when the frost makes every surface blue-grey and problematic in nature. Reality is a wind that bites through layers of heavy cloth to deliver its venom of chill deep into the bones. Reality is dark for the greater part of the day, the sun a low, orange trembling phantom ever fearful of being assailed once more by grey clouds. Reality is hearty stews and pasta in bowls with red wine in front of the telly, wrapped up in blankets.

Indagari tries to envision the summer-world: incessant heat, a sheen of sweat, the air never still for the chirring and rustling of insects. Light bright clothes and sunlight that tingles on the skin. But it all seems implausible.