Inside the globe, a world so small, a church and a graveyard blanketed in white. The handful of people, stood stock still, the coming storm will shift the snow, but they stay motionless. The groundsman alone stands with his fork, angled toward the great glass wall. A seamless slip, the hint of a crack, breaking through the stilted silence, hope lies within. Turned upside down, the snow falls again. He has time; he has patience, nowhere to go but the other side of the glass.