The hot sun struck the backs of their close-shaven necks. It was a peaceful, uneventful, glorious Sunday afternoon.
Yet Kiyoaki remained convinced that at the bottom of this world, which was like a leather bag filled with water, there
was a little hole, and it seemed to him that he could hear time dripping from it, drop by drop.
from Spring Snow by Yukio Mishima
No comments:
Post a Comment