Because I woke up today and looked at a yellowing book, I thought about a long, long time in the autumn when I opened a book that I usually love and read on. In this way, in my old days, desolate and lonely, I read a few lines of poetry like this:
"Your dream has blossomed,
Your dream has bloomed beautiful flowers,
When you are old. "
I don't feel like crying anymore.
Conception: