I have passed through the world for twenty years, a lifetime, a life of grass and trees, and an autumn. I am afraid that there are some things that I have no time to say, so I write here. I have been in ups and downs of the world. I have not met you, but I am already thinking of you.
It's really unlucky to say this, but no matter what, in the final analysis, it's just a few letters in ordinary days that I don't know where to send.
I have nothing to offer. I like to write a few words on weekdays, but occasionally I get a sentence that says, "Dedicate it to you, in the morning after the rain, at dusk, with my rotten skin and unyielding soul."
Intention: Just a few letters