Sky Limits by Celer
Hill towns and empty mountains pass by, but the smoothness of the train blurs the view, and it's easier than ever to fall asleep in the low morning sunlight coming in through the train's windows. We're sleeping, or staring out at the cities and landscapes; it's easy to imagine the sound, and connect it with these events. There's a contrast and connection between this reality and imagination. They're separate, but happening simultaneously. On a walk through the crowded streets of Kyoto, or a half-asleep morning, what was it like? Later, what do you remember?
During a walk home one evening, I stopped on top of the street with a view over the train tracks, passed the intersection across from Mini Stop and the bakery, and went up the hill into the our neighborhood. There's a particular sound when you step on the entrance grate by the doorway, and when opening the mailbox. Someday, I won't be in these same places again, and for now, this is what they sound like. Even these minor moments are important when you look back on the memory, and then look out from this overlook, seeing the city lights blinking in the distance.
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