Life moves at a leisurely pace, with a lazy, languid feeling. The occasional chatter and trivial chores are all cast aside, while the heart is forever steeped in a lingering, heady fragrance, leaving its mark and images hidden deep within... Whether these feelings are rich or not, they've always seemed to lag behind, to linger, from beginning to end. They are reflected in a vacant, fixed stare, in the changes of someone who has seen through it all, in thoughts of the past, and in the gloomy gray that fills the heart. Then, slowly, I remember, and remember again. Suddenly, an impulse strikes me to write something about this season...
July, the height of summer. A small town wrapped in the intense atmosphere of the season, without so many skyscrapers, neon lights, busy streets, or noisy bustle. Naturally, it's the ideal setting for a story.
All stories are about memories, not the past…
I feel like the writing is pretty good. Come on, the writing is very good.