Scorching Hot
大暑 [9] / [13]
He walked to the counter, promptly paid their bill, then walked out onto the street. The day already got dark. Trees were waving in the wind, damp with the deep scent of summer. He sat on a bench, gazing at the streets blankly. He was thinking about his competent, friendly coworkers whom he worked with when he was a rookie long before. Some died while on duty, some moved on to distant places. If they were to see Violet's case, what would they advise him to do?
He took out his notebook. The sheets of paper dimly glowed, shining by the light of the streetlamps.
<Flowing streets>
Fog flows in. Everything is blurry. The street floats.
Where are those trams, cars, every wheel floating? Without a harbor to anchor, loading many pitiful people up, the street submerged into fog.
To stand up holding a red postbox on the corner of the street, everything is all streetlamps gleaming hazily in the flow. What symbols are those not extinguished? My dear friend P! and K! Where are you all now? Although fog flows endlessly,
'Let us hold wrists warmly in the morning of the new day,' pen a few words and put it in the postbox, waiting all night for a postman to appear gloriously like a giant with a gold badge, gold buttons, a pleasant presence to complement the morning.
Fog flows unceasingly tonight.
After a long stroll around the nearby park, lost in thought, he went back to the apartment, undressed, and laid down on the bed. She had already returned to the apartment before him, and, though her door was closed, the light was on. He didn't want to speak to her, so he entered his room quietly. He had a headache and needed to rest.
