She had black thick short hair, revealing the back of her neck. The slim, well-shaped neck had a pale moonlight glow, like she had been daubed with powder using a soft brush.
The place was oddly hushed except for the cries of cicadas. The midsummer sun beat down the earth but in the room the light was dull and stagnant, as in a transient place.
She seemed to be part of an imaginary painting of Caravaggio.
“The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all of the phenomena occurring - and all of the acts carried out - on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with a cool, measured detachment. On the moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon.”
― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
Pinwheel and kites.
From left to right. Such a nice promenade.
/May the odds be ever in your favor.