I can hear the distant moans of a cold engine as it crawls up the frozen, black asphalt of the .
I can see, in the distance, the faint yellow lights of the hearse, as it peers .
over the rolling humps of the road, and makes it's way through the thick damp fog. As the car .
approaches its headlights stare me down as a lion would stare down its prey. I listen to the sound of .
crunching fall leaves as the weighted down hearse tramples over them with its soiled tires. The .
blackened windows of the shinny hearse stop in front of me, and the door closest to me is thrust open. .
A long, slender leg, covered with a black see-through stocking, steps onto the frost-bitten earth directly .
in front of me. A woman of widowed stature now stands before me, amongst the fog, as if to hesitantly .
say something to me, but doesn't. She watches attentively as the four men, who are appropriately .
suited in black trousers with brilliantly colored brass buttons, gently lift the coffin from the hull in the .
back of the vehicle. The hearse rises an inch or so above the tires, due to the strenuous weight of the .
beautiful silver coffin. A faint shiver whips through the chilled wind as the frozen handles of the coffin .
are reluctantly grasped by the eight men in black trousers with brilliant brass buttons. I watch without .
blinking, as the mysterious woman fallows the men in rhythmic step towards the grave yard. Sounds of .
marching and bristling leaves pass through my wind scorched ears. The coffin that is so gracefully .
carried is, in the same manner, placed on the taunt, yellow straps of the frost covered, casket lowering, .
A tall, and grossly thin man approaches from behind the wall of grief-stricken relatives. The .
pale flesh of his face hangs tightly to his definite cheek bones. His eyes are hidden behind the purple .
bags protruding from under his sunken eyes. He is dressed in an all black attire with the exception of a .