In my early teenage years, I visited an island far away from home. A rainy place, with red foxes burning in the grassland like fire.
Delving through the layers of Capital, I was lost in the repetition of terraced houses, pigeons, and brick pavement. Cemeteries downtown were quite an odd scene - but I later found out it was common practice in many other lands.
Riding on a bus, I finally saw the giant clock tower. Well-known around the world, the building had an unreal glow on a rainy afternoon, much like the pictures I saw in a hundred different places.
Maybe it was when I was walking on a bridge on a misty morning that I saw the big clock.
Or a drizzling noon when crossing the street.
After countless encounters with photos of the building in countless times and angles, I can no longer tell which glimpse belongs to my true experience. Or the clock itself was, overall, a construction of memories.