The humidity here feels like aiji in a shoebox-pressed together, shaky and literal. I’ve been here since dawn, trying to decide how much to let my toes sink into the grit beneath those polished floors. The air smells like static and stale coffee, a mix that somehow makes you want to forget everything solid. Somewhere nearby, a café whirs along, its espresso drops a monologue across the floor. I keep thinking, what did they really say before I stepped out? Maybe it’s about it all. If I wander off, I’ll start speaking louder than the noise, just to test if the silence outlives me too. Watch the way shadows stretch, how the sunlight tangles, how time bends here like taffy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll return, but tonight… I’m just listening. The ground scratches beneath my feet, a reminder that some places are good for staying, others for leaving behind parts of yourself. I’ll never say what I’m thinking, just hope someone else sees the mess I’m building. Maybe that’s the point.

Conversations Under Clouds

You might also be interested in:

About the author: Topiclo Admin

Comments (0)

Join the conversation

Comments (0)

Join the conversation