“You’re so quiet today. Are you unhappy?”

He said to her. Some people nearby were doing other things, laughing. He took a sip of water after speaking. She didn’t seem to hear, then lowered her head again, as if thinking about something. That was when he noticed she was wearing earphones. Their taste in music was not the same. So he put on his earphones too.

2. The afternoon is a white flag. A drop of ink is tearing through the inertia of white, diving toward the end of days.

When he stood up, his hand accidentally poked a stranger. He apologized immediately and hurried away.

The weather was cool and overcast. He noticed that when he carried his backpack it kept sliding down. He felt the bag wanted to escape somewhere. He looked toward the storm drain.

3. West Henrietta Road. Reflected figures in windows reaching into the distance. A procession of faint light alongside dead leaves.

She got in the car. In its jolting, the night before her eyes was fluttering. She would be back at school soon. The day was slowly degrading with the silence of night. In the light of her phone screen she felt a bit carsick. What to do tomorrow?

4. The hours between now and dawn are left for the end of conversation, for a glimpse of eternity on the way to the end of everything.

The instant the wind blew past, her face suddenly lost all sensation. This face, the one that had brought her countless pain and strength, suddenly became a fragile paper napkin. Her hands were shoved tight into her pockets, rubbing hard against the velvet lining. Walking through the dormitory door, the warmth surrounding her made her feel as though she were drowning in a blurred memory.

5. Are there no more swaying sunflowers smiling as they break through yesterday’s concrete?

He couldn’t help imagining days without them. Humans on another planet, an island surrounded by water. He couldn’t help speculating about days without himself. A stack of photographs, a foggy winter. He couldn’t help taking a sip of hot water. A conversation at the same temperature. A beginner’s trial. He couldn’t help lying down and closing his eyes. Facing the clouds.

6. I bury that wire which shot purple sparks three years ago inside the hand mold beneath the autumn tree.

At her dormitory desk, she leaned back, playing a jazz piece called Suzukake no Michi. The schedule had run out. There was nothing to regret about today or now. As an almost imperceptible drizzle fell outside the window, she looked out and in the rain’s shadow seemed to see a blurred figure: it was Akutagawa Ryūnosuke.

7. The latte art was never made in the first place. Do you think that’s a shame, my dear Apollo?

Her words were so sad they hurt him. He knew the storm was coming. Soon it would get cold, it would snow, and this campus covered in autumn leaves would become something else entirely. By then the top of the library would emit a resolute light, and snow would rise past the first-floor windowsills. Should he switch his Starbucks to hot by then?

8.

Night and dripping corridors. Festivals and roaring. Purple, fire, and halos. Angels and walking. Closed eyes, strands of hair, and hooks. Crevices. A pool. Ghosts. Smoke and mirrors. Snow. Blood and gods. Words, silence? Words, bottles, traces, and windows. Lamp. Bathroom. Adios.