The Wind tries to show a foreign transmission. It derives from another century, another space. The figure tries to make contact, though as it is part of the Wind, it floats freely, unable to speak. It only howls with the Wind, expressing its cold, depressed state. A light shines upon it, to make sure that it is there. The light goes through the transparent Wind, as if there is nothing to reflect off and rest on. It will never be able to touch, to feel… for it has never existed. ‘Tis but a thought. A foreign transmission.
And yet the light still shines upon a figure.