for a thursday, it is strange to see only us, a friend and i, and two other couples in this yakitori-ya at st. marks place. if one willfully ignores the meat searing over charcoal, one could hear twilight settling slowly over the street outside.
in japanese language, they have an onomatopoeic word for silence. shin or shin to. i don’t know this for sure; i don’t speak the language. but someone told me sometime this arresting snippet that i still remember this. how is it, that one tears through life, as if through a museum, and remembers one thing and not another?
in the apartment, just before evening shower, i find a crushed twenty dollar bill in the left pocket of my chinos and in the other, some blue tinted lint and a yellow-green post it with scribblings i could not decipher.