The left bank of Paris, the right bank of time. I thought that the days would rush and be gentle like flowing water, along the direction it should be. However, time did not wait for me. Before I could realize my epiphany, the surroundings suddenly changed. Now, you abandon the camphor on the left bank and come to embrace me. Can the wasted time be compared with the romance of the left bank? An ostrich can never fly. The most comfortable posture is to bury your head in the sand. How about, how can I resonate with your elegant posture to sing the concerto?