On occasion, he blotted out the Silo on the edge of his father’s land with his thumb, as if he were suturing an illusion formed from his daydreams. A gaping wound left from childhood free time, and the imaginations that sprung from a blanket of leather bound sketchbooks, some of them buried in the debris of nature from forgetfulness. He was a master painter in his mind. As he held one eye shut, he judged the distance of his morning pilgrimage, during which the reeds would carry him to that Silo. Miles of flourishing grain, and no one but him to hold their bounty. The winds bearing the fruit of a symphony of flora to his ear, and to his mind.
This was, after all, only in his mind now. Morning after morning of that time unraveled within it, each season weaving together into the blur of his moaning eyes that were once jaded by the routineness. They were filthy pools with filthier unshaken innards set upon them, now crystalline and broken watchmen of an unending era. Frozen film over the land like cracked glass now entered his daydreams, and the breadth of these visions entered his lungs, knocking plumes of wind out of his corpus. Every vision of breath in his head reminded him of his father’s rotten lung. Silent moving pictures invaded and perverted his thoughts. They were not held by any other creature, save for himself.
Today it was. Each step painting a trail behind him in stout strokes with the soles of his feet. His eyes did not wander from the sight. Once, he raised his thumb, which was now matted in a compact leather glove, to blot out the tower. A steely head held out in the forest, mourning as a grave, and most likely disheartened of its inhabitants. God’s yard. His eyes softened slightly but their gaze resumed once the thumb was gone.  As a mind festering with, and preoccupied by memories burned and grafted his skull, it was hard to maintain the thought of where he was going. To fixate on one point, yes. He had to do so. Any distraction or deviation could tear his mind asunder.
The great white canvas of the snow held images of dread and withheld lifetimes from him. It brought the music of silence to his ears when he shambled forward, uninspired, adrift and clouded with images of dread. A perfect mirror it was. Willows and pines shaded him with their dirtied branches as all became swallowed by the skeletal foliage. A million bones cast their shadows in a web across his face and chest, and his eyes peeked through two narrow holes. A tuft of silver hair on his head looked like a winterized animal. Overhead, the snowhead temple of the tower. Its shadow draped over all the darkness, in a way, further foliating him. Fingers wrapped around the freezing wedge of his stainless steel ax, strapped upon his back, unmoving. Wind whistling through a hollow body, and the aching of ancient lifeforms elder to anything for miles and miles. Limbs would tremble and ensnare one another before committing themselves to the fall. Rungs of fallen ladders lost in frozen feet below. He allowed himself a look at the ground as ladder rungs echoed in his head. The fear of falling, or a man elder to him falling, or the fear of knocking him over. 
His mind exfoliated from the quickening of forgotten dreams, The Tower held high in his hands. The Silo but mentioned to him, a blemish on the land, unused, unwanted unless for the lust of decay. Meters of harvest stowed away. His hands were now turning something. A wheel towards The Tower, bending fortune in his hands. Father’s coughs in the blood-bowl. It tripped off the table and spun itself over and over. Bile upon bile. This was when his journey ended and his sojourn began. Analyzing the breadth of the scripture was inefficient, what mattered now was when his father was sepulchred. Hemoglobin globs on his shirt.
The Tower’s night was upon him. His legs stretched and fattened with gravity as he came to cold stone which was lesser buried by the snow. Transactions between him and the air becoming thin. Whispers translated into coughs. The Tower before him, written before him. Built when? Not by him, disheartened of its inhabitants. Too valuable an object now in the cold to have not used. No. It is not heated, there is no energy, the generators have run out. A branch brushes against him and he chooses to ignore it. A craven image of the Tower’s insides questioned him but he withdrew it. The eyes of Death upon it and jaded by it.
Hollowed out corpses were now in his head. Fine fibers of snow like bone dust glistening on every hand. Skeletal fragments that remained buried here and there. The Tower was here. It was steel. A domed Wheel of Fortune with no spokes, its head shining like a cranial cap. Miracles of life held within its inside. Dead foliage was foliage enough. Florabunda.
The man collapsed in the snow by the Silo. His head throbbed and wheezed. Great change had indeed sprung upon him, and in its steel maw he was satisfied. May he be laid to waste here? Eventually his bone fragments will lay in frozen dust. He pulled a woolen layer from his face so that his mouth could grace the sky dotted by traveling stars. Eyes circling constellations he did not know or wasn’t aware of. I had traveled all the way back, he thought, but he didn’t give a chance to it being someone else's silo. In his mind, it folded and weaved with all the others.
A father confided in him, he thought. The falls and summers when harvest was full were here too, once. Snow stung his face and trapped his clothes, wetting them. Old water and old time boiled together.