Categories > Anime/Manga > I'll CKBC Generation Basket
The lights in the gym take about fifteen minutes to turn on. When you lay on your back in the middle of the hardwood floor, it looks like shuddering suns coming into existance.
You don't realize, when you're on the court, how bright they are. Now you do, having experienced the pitch-black darkness of before the light.
The metaphor takes you the entire morning to produce and you haven't had any sleep that night. You would never have appreciated and taken advantage of Tachibana and Kouzu if you hadn't had to deal with all that crap about your brother. Maybe you would never have even left basketball if Akane hadn't stuck his nose in where it wasn't wanted.
And so, without the darkness, you would never have seen this brilliant light, bright enough to be blinding.
When all the lights have flickered on and are humming away, you stand, leaving your bag on the floor, and grab a basketball off the rack. Most people would be loathe to break the near-perfect silence, but to you the silence is nothing to the perfect sound of a basketball.
It echoes around the room just as much as your action repeats itself, the motion of dribbling nearly subconcious now. You don't have to think about your motions as you move towarads the net, a lazy layup creating that beautiful sound that you treasure so much as the ball passes through the netting.
You don't realize, when you're on the court, how bright they are. Now you do, having experienced the pitch-black darkness of before the light.
The metaphor takes you the entire morning to produce and you haven't had any sleep that night. You would never have appreciated and taken advantage of Tachibana and Kouzu if you hadn't had to deal with all that crap about your brother. Maybe you would never have even left basketball if Akane hadn't stuck his nose in where it wasn't wanted.
And so, without the darkness, you would never have seen this brilliant light, bright enough to be blinding.
When all the lights have flickered on and are humming away, you stand, leaving your bag on the floor, and grab a basketball off the rack. Most people would be loathe to break the near-perfect silence, but to you the silence is nothing to the perfect sound of a basketball.
It echoes around the room just as much as your action repeats itself, the motion of dribbling nearly subconcious now. You don't have to think about your motions as you move towarads the net, a lazy layup creating that beautiful sound that you treasure so much as the ball passes through the netting.
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