China Blue

I looked out the window and I saw a person in a street faraway.

Trees and vintage cars filled the stretch of that long lane. Sunbeams passed through the gaps between the leaves and broke on his hair. Dusts made their small explosion at every crunch of his footsteps, and it echoed and it mingled in the crisp, vanilla scent of summer air.

Without warning he stooped down and placed a chess board on the pavement. The took a tether out of his pocket and tied its handle at the end of the rope. He tilted his head, looked at the blank distance far away, and inhaled and sighed. Then, he placed his palm on his knee and pulled himself upward and stood up and walked.

And he walked and walked and dragged the chess board and it rattled and bounced, as if complaining from the pain brought by the hard flints of the asphalt.

He passed through the window, under the blue summer sky, the man and his screaming baggage, and all colors wrinkled and fell like dead leaves on that summer pavement, and I am the chess board.

My desire for temporary death and eternal dreaming intensified as I clunk clunk clunk on that sidewalk, my pain displaced and drowning somewhere in the song of this merry world.

And he walked on, oblivious to my splintered shell, to the sound of my rattling bones against the sour, empty space. Summer is a crisp, vanilla scent, he said.

And he whistled and nodded and hummed and smiled at the passersby.


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