It's just like in one of those stories I composed at the age of 12. In fact, until I started this, I did not fully realise the extent. In the background of this page, there is an ominous field of ripe rye; reality supplies thunderstorm, pensive mood and a song, the same song I thought my characters might tune to. I even doubt that I am older here than they were at the time. Accordingly, the name the singer wishes for herself starts with a very same letter.

It is peculiar to sense the pressure of hands tying the stomach as if it were the hands or the stomach which belongs to someone other than the person who records their mentions. There has passed enough time to feel dispassionate about it. Will I be able to miss the consolations that I offered myself, the caressing of the hair and of the stomach? I must confess, it works well.

The most wonderful justification for any kind of moral concession. There is not enough evidence with which to back up the decimation of it. I'm sorry, World. You will go on forever, ending stories, shutting doors to the old heroes whose lives have become uninteresting and has gone out of focus. Should there be my 'later on', after I left every one of them, kind and honest, rogue and cruel, with their visages impassive, and did not continue with them as far as I wanted to? And us, what could we make of scenarios, of legacies left by these heroes? Should I give up as easily? To become an ending of some story because of some forces. Could I progress instead in spite of everything to some kind of glorious contingency?

Death is something that seems reassuring to me today, the end of all ends. It's the possibility of not being vulnerable to salty stains and decayed rye in the fields, when autumn comes, bringing about some new circle to follow, and all the old songs to bore oneself again. What's the point of the grip of this life if it teaches us everything for nothing? Is this what my home should be like?

Heard the cold wind say
'You're a fool to stay'
But I did
Yes I did