Original artwork description:

The days have grown so short that the sun only manages to reach the table for a moment—at two in the afternoon—only to immediately release it from its warm hands for a full twenty-four hours.
White frozen forms, withdrawn into themselves. They do not reflect light—they absorb it, as ice absorbs warmth.
On the pink tablecloth—like spilled blood of the departed summer—a yellow apple preserves the memory of the sun. Its skin is a map of forgotten orchards, its color—a promise that will never be fulfilled.
You need no one, for only the depth of this blue matters now—the blue that hangs outside the window, the blue that gnaws from within. And the cold red to reproach it—like the last flare of life before the long silence. And in the evening, the emptiness screams louder, and you weep from loneliness.
...Winter is already here. And the apple on pink is but a monument to what we once called warmth.

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