It’s lovely out; thick maples and gingkos overhead. It’s beautiful at night and I hope too to catch the view in the dawn. I always would have a lot to say but all my words slip away that moment pen is put to paper. There were some mishappenings afterwards too that I don’t care to detail. Anyways, it was lovely.
The road I often walk, at times, and usually I go out at the exact same times— give or take an hour or so, and on the porch of his house that old man is crouched and smoking. I wonder if by now I’m recognized; the boy warming his cold hands in his coat pockets, the boy standing at the glass doorway of that little restaurant for a while, are you well tonight? Closed, and making conversation with the last customers of the night. And I wear that same coat always as I haven’t any other winter coats.
There’s a shrine by the house and all over is a thick flooring of yellow foliage, and there’s the one that held once that lackluster omatsuri selling the typical shaved ice, squids, hotcakes, yakisoba, candied fruits; so on and so forth, at the ridiculous prices I, to be frank, always fall prey to. But it’s my mom’s money because I’m a rotten child that mooches off his mother or something, and I ought to be taught a lesson or two. And of course, the games and performances on the little stage. But it’s beautiful in solitude. There was this large tree and I peered up atit and its fruit— what was it? Oranges. Winter yields delicious oranges. And on a bench sat a mother and little girl with a vending machine drink. There’s nothing here, what are you doing?