April 2014, Kyoto, Japan, rain.
I sat by the window and typed this diary.
The drizzle outside the window formed a curtain, and the pink cherry blossoms bloomed unbridled.
But I know what kind of secrets are buried under the cherry blossom tree. Its roots are rotten and smelly.
Just like my youth, it looks like a bright spring, but in fact it is corrupt.
Just like the promise he made to me, it seems to be extremely heavy, but in fact it is as light as a feather.