The writer is sitting by the window. He contemplates the rushing storm of snow. His story is a tale from the shadows of his past, looming over his mind like divine ghosts, like dark muses and concubines. There is a drama unfolding, there is a trade being concluded. It is his soul that’s being weighed on scales, that is being torn apart in two. His tale is of godly figures; he is the mere mortal who plays the central part.