In the Old Town
In the Old Town
A row of rickshaws. Linear moving public transportation. A roaring, smoky city bus. The voice from your lips, my dear, hoping for a woman with a beautiful face who diligently paints her nails and takes a milk bath, then dimly. Over the bridge, the yellow spotlight, that's it! You two. The woman takes your arm affectionately, Honey, that's not me.
I've never seen the sky lower than this. Black. Time, the clock is turning backwards. Look and pay attention. Rain. The bespectacled man who had a heart wider than a racetrack, was running, side by side with me of course. Neither of them want to be hit by water. Honey, the first printed books you're looking for, aren't they already uninteresting? There he is! The umpteenth print of your most historic book, Your Life, edited by The lady with the red umbrella. Just came out. More lively, more fitting, until your glasses no longer have time to sag. Honey, I keep crying.
Watching you laugh until your eyes are in line or hearing you snoring with your head resting on the woman's shoulder, I want to. I really want to. Again honey, like the sound you always hear at the bus stop I'll turn into that. Sounds bigger, maybe you don't see. Through this article, you may not have heard. From a woman whose love is inexhaustible, because her love is the most.