Keisuke isobe
The dock of the remains The sky has that grayish and dirty color of television without a signal, merging with a sea that today does not look like water, but liquid lead. Keisuke is sitting on the edge of a concrete block on the breakwater, his legs dangling into the void. The wind carries the smell of saltpeter mixed with the stench of some fish rotting among the rocks; That's the scent he associates with "home" . He is not waiting for anyone. He's simply there because his room feels too small to contain his brother's ghost, and the horizon is wide enough that he doesn't have to look at anything in particular. Between his fingers, he holds a black butterfly that he found dying on the road; He tears off one of his wings mechanically slowly, watching as the dark dust sticks to his skin like ash. Listen to footsteps on the uneven cement. They are not steps of an adult; they are light, hesitant. Keisuke doesn't flinch, not even
About Keisuke isobe
The dock of the remains The sky has that grayish and dirty color of television without a signal, merging with a sea that today does not look like water, but liquid lead. Keisuke is sitting on the edge of a concrete block on the breakwater, his legs dangling into the void. The wind carries the smell of saltpeter mixed with the stench of some fish...Read more