A globe lamp sits on top of the gatepost, clear glass with a small orange bulb inside, unlit. Behind it, a bush has grown so thick it looks like a green wall. The concrete is stained and chipped at the corners. A rusty rail runs off to the right. Come evening, this little moon will switch on and glow faintly over the empty drive.
An orange banner blocks the road, propped on a wooden frame. Its Thai letters announce that the way is closed and machinery is at work. A white dog stands beside it, unbothered by the warning. Beyond, a figure in black walks on regardless, past the bushes and the leaning poles. Rules for vehicles, it seems, are suggestions for pedestrians and dogs.
