It is winter in Colonia.
The Sycamore trees stand naked: their bare branches reach into the air like flesh-less fingers.
The crooked blue table-clothed tables stay quiet: the finely-wrapped cutlery rolls onto the cobblestoned ground.
Hotel doors are shut. Huge rows of stacked wood rest along the white-washed walls.
The streets are empty. A wooden carriage has been abandoned.
A few antique cars rest beside low-lying colonial home whose doors remain closed. One car has been transformed into a garden: it is a lovely mélange of the abiotic and the biotic, of the living and the dead.