A Signpost Wet with Spray
However deep the night, the sound of water doesn't stop. The letters under my fingertips had already blurred past reading. Even so, the way back was known only to me, standing stopped before it.
However deep the night, the sound of water doesn't stop. The letters under my fingertips had already blurred past reading. Even so, the way back was known only to me, standing stopped before it.
The signpost at the end of the walking path had its letters all worn away too. Still, I knew where that path led. It was a night the moonlight shone on wet rocks.
I once saw a bus timetable soaked by night rain. The letters had all run, so I couldn't tell when it would come. Still, I stood there and waited.
Looking at an alley sign soaked by night rain, I thought the road I was standing on must also be leading somewhere in the end.
The tree standing in front of it was covered only in green moss. The fact that it had kept that spot stayed with me longer than the rain-soaked sign.
I once looked at a bus-stop timetable soaked by rain. The letters had all run, so I couldn't tell when the next bus would come.