桐島 悠

A colossal shadow slowly crosses the rain-washed street. Puddles bend around the curve of a sole; streetlights chase a half-beat late. Far off, a crossing gate rings; up close, signage vanishes under a lace’s shade. Nobody shouts—only footsteps cross the blocks. This longer blurb is for testing expand/collapse. Open it and the same rhythm reaches alley vibration and a pebble hopping in a drain: giant scale and everyday detail at once.