Book snapshot

I have been standing for half an hour, contemplating the road from my window. An old lady riding a bicycle passed by. A pigeon passed by too, but apart from that no one passed by, and I did not hear anyone’s voice, neither a human voice nor a bird nor a stone. For a moment I felt that I was watching a still image, not a live scene. I finally remembered that today is Sunday and my surprise disappeared; this day, in addition to being a holiday, is a dull day in Germany, a dull, gloomy and desolate day; there is no movement in the streets, nor in the houses, nor movement in the sky, nor on the ground. Sometimes I imagine that the inhabitants of this country speak sign language on Sunday so as not to break the thread of eloquent silence and existential calm on this day. On the outskirts of where I live, the scene becomes more tragic and heavier, resembling mourning ceremonies, or scenes of a curfew; On Sundays in those areas, a foreigner feels lonely, isolated, and as if he has been living a hundred years of isolation.