Those songs are like a summer afternoon; only the shadows of the trees and the scorching sun flow in the still air.
He could remember very few things, but he could not forget the afternoon surrounded by singing. Sometimes he wondered if this was love, but in the end he could only recall the small corner of his mouth and the flick of his wrist as he walked side by side with her.
He rarely looked directly at that face. I have almost forgotten what I looked like back then.
That's probably not love, he's just missing it.
His summer is frozen and empty, trapped by forgotten sounds.
At that time, he really thought he liked it.
But maybe this is just reluctance.
And now I just miss it.
Intention: Live well and work hard