Miles Parker sat by the window of his cluttered Western-style apartment, gazing out at the bustling city below. The swirl of neon lights flickered in his eyes while a gentle breeze rustled through his collection of “流畅的” trash bags, each filled with objects and memories he’d gathered over the years.
“Why do you keep these, Miles?” asked his friend Sally, lounging on the couch, her blonde curls bouncing as she rummaged through a pile of Ghibli DVDs. “They don’t seem to have much use.”
Miles chuckled, adjusting his round glasses. “They remind me of stories, Sally. Each one tells a tale of something lost or found. Like that time I found a discarded manuscript in the park. Haruki Murakami, they said. The real thing! Or so I thought.”
Sally’s laugh echoed through the room, a bright, melodious sound. “And what did it say?”
“Oh, something about an owl and a cat having tea. Very Murakami.”
She smiled, tossing a DVD case at him. “You’re always lost in stories, aren’t you? What about those Western standoffs you love so much? Does the collection include any cowboy secrets?”
Miles shrugged. “They’re not just trash bags, Sally. They’re my life, kind of like a Western’s saloon filled with little mysteries.”
The doorbell rang, interrupting their banter. Sally got up to answer it while Miles continued his daydreaming. She returned with a parcel, eyes wide with excitement. “A mysterious package for you, Sherlock.”
He opened the parcel gingerly, revealing a small booklet titled “流畅的 Trash Bags: The Art of Subtle Rubbish.” The irony wasn’t lost on him. Inside, he found sketches and notes about seeing beauty in trivial things, a philosophy dear to his heart.
“I suppose this confirms you’re not alone in your eccentricities,” Sally teased, peeping over his shoulder. “What will you do with all this newfound knowledge?”
Miles grinned, feigning a dramatic cowboy drawl. “Why, ma’am, I reckon it’s high time we opened a gallery right here in this bustling town.”
Their laughter mingled with the evening breeze as they envisioned a humorous exhibition—each bag a window into their whimsical world.
As the evening wore on, they moved to the balcony, sipping iced coffee and watching the city’s shimmering lights. Their conversation drifted between dreams and reality, much like the Murakami tales Miles cherished.
“Miles, have you ever considered that perhaps we’re the heroes of our own Western?” Sally mused, her tone mock-serious. “Two city dwellers, facing man’s greatest foe—urban monotony.”
Miles nodded, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Then, let it be a comedy, with a touch of mystery and a whole lot of style.”
As they clinked their mugs, promising to follow through with their whimsical plan, they realized that life was indeed a collection of curious tales waiting to be told, much like the contents of those “流畅的” trash bags.
In that moment, Miles felt as though he’d stepped out of the shadow of Murakami and created his own narrative—a Western in a concrete jungle, with a friend by his side and laughter as their enduring soundtrack.