Long, long ago, I already loved telling stories, all kinds of stories. They were stories of sorrow and joy, of life and death. I was deeply moved as I told them, but afterward I felt like the most boring person in the world, because my stories had only one listener: myself.
Everyone says I’m crazy. I don’t understand why, so I can only stare at them, at their fear, their contempt, their hideous faces. Then I laugh. When I laugh, tears stream down my face. Watching them flow like water, I begin to tell a story.
Premise:
