Krakatit by Karel Čapek

He ran along the main road, breathing heavily, passed over the top of the hill, and descended into a valley. The ruddy flow disappeared behind him. There disappeared also the objects lit up by the dull glow and the shadows thrown by it. It was as if everything was drifting confusedly away, motionless, as if it were being carried on the breast of an immense river, a river untroubled by any wave and unvisited by any bird. He grew afraid of the beat of his own feet in the midst of this silent and immense flux of everything; he relaxed his pace, trod more softly, and went on through the milky darkness.

In front of him on the road he saw the twinkling of a light. He wanted to avoid it, stopped and hesitated. A lamp on a table, the remains of fire in a stove, a lantern looking for a path, while some worn-out moth beat its wings against the flickering light. He approached it without hurrying, as if not sure of himself. He stopped, warmed himself from a distance at the unsteady fire, came nearer with a fear that he would again be driven away. A short distance away he stopped again; it was a cart with a covering of cloth. On one of the shafts was hanging a lighted lantern which threw trembling handfuls of light on to a white horse, white stones, and the white stumps of birch trees at the side of the road. On its head the horse had a rough sack and was crunching some oats. It had a long, silver mane and a tail which had never been clipped. At its head there stood a little old man with a white beard and silver hair. He also in colouring was coarse and pale, like the covering over the cart. He stamped about, reflecting, saying something to himself and twisting the white mane of the horse in his fingers.