The sunset is full of sincere emotions. I think all stories begin in that desolation and absurdity.
Some quiet bustle, some piercing warmth.
Sadness may be thought to be innocent, but it is really uncontrollable.
Who has counted the lost past, like a huge hourglass hanging quietly in the air, with its flickering reflection, and that lonely and humble spring flower has not bloomed again.
Time is the ignition point of hazy pain.