It rains as usual during Qingming. Rain drops accelerate outside a bus stop, leaking from the ceiling. I straddle a stool. A student around my age, rummaging books, murmurs the words with the initial letter S.

             I see a young man leaning against a billboard and his suit misaligns. Perhaps chatting with his girlfriend, he is unwilling to lay down his phone.

             An old man’s phone alarms, but his trembling hand fails to reach his pocket. Eventually, a bottle slips off and all the pills scatter on the ground.

             A widow in a wheel chair carries a bunch of flowers in her arms.

             Dude, I want to laugh somehow. Holding a one-way ticket, we are waiting for the same bus that ends nowhere, the answer to a black humor. Then all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rains.

Published by Sam Chen