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Tall, green trees loom over the blue tarpaulin tents, as if ready to catch the now gray sky; that sun wasn’t getting caught today. A rusty bicycle lies tied to a tree over wet grass, its basket full of bottles. A dirty tatami is surrounded by small wooden boxes, housing a few stray tea cups. An old dog yawned. Akiko quickly kneeled to pat it as she walked into the homeless camp, a piece of the park that had been buried under many tents of blue and green, under stacks of cardboard.
Akiko: Chiieeef!! Tadaima!!
Sachiko: Um. Tadaima.
Wires connect the brown tree trunks spawning everywhere, socks and briefs float in place like guardian spirits. In front of the entrance to every tent lay open umbrellas, tied to wooden sticks that hold them in place; next to them are buckets. Chairs from all over the world litter the place, scattered almost haphazardly all over the brown ground; for some reason, a steering wheel rests on one of them.
Akiko: Chiieeef!!
From one of the tents emerges a very old, skinny woman wearing at least five layers of shirts at the same time, mumbling as she takes off the hoodie that covered her still blonde hair. She smells like vinegar.
