Half The List Of Ships

Clouds like white whales -- or zeppelins, if you will, in the way of an uncomplicated jocular reference, considering the specific locale under discussion. Countless, they stand immovably above your head, as if watching you, coldly, dispassionately. The Baltic sky -- a gelled reflection of itself in the sea below -- is unlike any other you'll ever see. There is no way to describe it with any greater specificity. In a country too small to define its various geographic regions in terms of the old compass points, that skyful of infinite cloud count is a country unto itself. One could say, at the risk of sounding somewhat excessively literary (but then again, why not), that the said metaphoric land of the immovable white clouds above is where the dead, and especially those unjustly killed in great numbers, dwell in uneasy peace. Those discrete dispassionate white clouds above your head: they make you feel vulnerable, somehow -- and vaguely guilty, too, for being alive -- as you near the large village/small town o