The evening spreads out against a February sky. The city street bustles and mutters. A spices restaurant (without oyster shells), three spring onion cakes, a pair of hand palm, on a small table… Snow starts to fall, magically. You open your arms to embrace snowfall and invite me for a dance. So we danced. Danced through the street – which seems empty now; crossed the stone bridge – the creek is invisible in the dusk but is singing; passed doorknobs of varied shapes, as a question follows. You know, when you say hi, it sounds like an ancient voice that has traveled thousands of years to reach my ear in which I drown.
Had to pick up coffee today and was struck by how the streets have been deserted with shops and restaurants closed. Could not help re-imagining those bustling days.