Shōji
The wind is high tonight on the green, gust after gust pounds the tallest branches of the huge planes, tossing like forests of kelp on the ocean floor. Tiny voice in the deep night, small doll with fish-scale eyes catching what little light remains, keeping their stare on me whichever way I look. 2.35am and you're here again, dressed as the day you left, your face pressed up against the see-through paper door, that I get up tiredly to open. |