Winter. Tage.

A hushed Munich draped in relentless snow becomes a canvas for a narrator’s wandering thoughts. The streets pulse with lanterns, the sky hangs heavy with a muted, silvery light, and every breath feels like a whisper of possibility. As the city glistens, the poet‑like voice asks why this winter feels so vast, turning ordinary moments into a chorus of yearning and mystery.

Amid the frost‑kissed alleys, surreal figures emerge—a luminous white woman with silver‑blond hair, a silent companion named Fripouille, and a rabbit that darts through shadows. Their encounters are rendered in vivid, almost tactile detail: lanterns spilling amber fire, the sudden crack of a glass lamp, and the soft rustle of snow‑laden trees. The narrative weaves these images into a dreamlike procession that blurs the line between external scenery and inner reverie.

The opening invites listeners into a world where the ordinary is transformed into the extraordinary, and every snowfall carries the weight of hidden longing. It is a lyrical meditation on winter’s quiet power, offering a richly atmospheric experience that lingers long after the first chapter fades.