At the age of thirty-four, I was sitting on a plane recalling my love story in high school. I looked at the visible raindrops on the double-glazed plane that seemed to be so parallel that they formed a line. I couldn't help but think of the book "Norwegian Wood" that I often read with her in the past. My memory will gradually become blurred. Perhaps such incomplete memories can be accommodated in an incomplete container like a novel.
Intention: Youth will eventually pass away, but where is my happiness?