At the back of a barn lies a swollen old pig.
Forgotten and covered with dust, the pig's heaving breath is occasionally interrupted by a sharp snort. Its odor is marked by a putrid stagnancy, whereby the immovable animal rots and rots and rots. Save for the pig and the creaking of old wood, the barn stays quiet year-round, and dust continues to layer on top of more dust.
During the winter, the sun spills light through the old wood, covering the inside of the barn for an hour or two a day. And, if only for a moment, the pig feels alive.
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