Outside, the street carries the ice, the ice carries the wheels, the wheels carry the fear, and the fear carries the driver in the winter.

With strained throat, fixed eyes and suffocated mind, the driver clenches his hands on the wheel and scratches his teeth. This cold on his spine that cuts him, makes him small by the stature, this cold felt to the bone marrow, it’s not the cold of winter, it’s fear; and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the end.

Winter is always a live theater performance of dread for the driver. He is an actor who plays the “Fear is for the Winter” daily. But every time, at the end of the day, he feels a kind of comfort: “I have passed the fear today”. So he washes the scare off thoroughly.

There are so many fears in the tree of life, real or fabricated fears. Take the smoke. The driver smokes a lot, packs of cigarettes a day, but the scare is nonexistent. The scare is nonexistent but deadly. Winter is like a tsunami of terror, wave after wave born from the imagination of fear. “You’re afraid when driving in the winter, but you’re going to mess it up in the summer on the sidewalk,” he says to himself. And he does not even seem bothered by cowardice because he did not know courage, and he grew up and surrounded himself only with people without veins.

But the most terrible virus of fear is the man himself; and the driver digs, he digs the hole of fear, and the path of consciousness is getting darker. That until the tree of life breaks.

Then one day the air of his lungs cried out of terror, the wheels crashed, the white turned red, the red coagulated, and the fear vanished; only the night without day and the eyes without light remain.