In the cold winter, I think of summer days•••
What kind of story is this, and what kind of beginning it should be. Images, characters, scenes. Everything is being told.
We have spent so many hot summers in our lives, huddled under the eaves and on bamboo towers. Look at the world with eyes that have never experienced wind and frost. It is in days like this that memories slowly creep out, run over you, and build a monument-sized embankment there that never seems to collapse.