夜行之詩

The underpass at midnight felt like a forgotten river. The air carried a mix of dampness and faint traces of alcohol. Graffiti stretched across the walls, twisting under the dim yellow lights, like remnants of unspoken words left behind in the night. In the corner, a few empty beer cans lay scattered, reflecting the weak glow—silent, like people who had drunk themselves into sleep.

Leaning against the cold wall, I listened to the distant murmur of cars. The sound felt like it was seeping in from another world. My fingertips traced the rough paint, the coarse texture pulling me back to reality. But there was no rush to leave, no clear destination to head toward. I simply stood there, letting time flow as slowly as it wanted, wrapped in the quiet presence of the night. I looked toward the exit, where a flickering light waited—distant, almost unreal. But at least, it was still there.