<Drive my car>
However agonizing, it was necessary to confront the facts. Only through knowing could a person become strong.
Whether u want to or not. But the place you return to is always slightly different from the place you left. That's the rule. It can never be exactly the same.
Aren't you a little young to be, like, the voice of reason or something?
Not being able to find the right words at crucial times is one of my many problems.
Brooding over how things had turned out-after everything had already been decided- was another of my chronic problems.
I've had this dream so many times. It's a beautiful dream. Always the same moon. Always eight inches thick. The bottom half is sunk down in the sea. I'm leaning against Aki-Kun, the moon shines beautifully, it's just the two of us, the waves lapping gently outside. But every time I wake up I feel unbearably sad. That moon made of ice is nowhere to be found.
Unfortunately, I'm just not that smart. I needed to take the long way around. I always take a roundabout way.
That's what we all do: endlessly take the long way around. I wanted to tell her this, but kept silent. Blurting out aphorisms like that was another one of my problems.
When I was twenty or so, I tried several times to keep a diary, but I just couldn't do it. So many things were happening around me back then that I could barely keep up with them, let alone stand still and write them all down in a notebook. And most of these things weren't the kind that made me think, oh I've got to write this down. It was all I could do to open my eyes in the strong headwind, catch my breath, and forge ahead.
Music has that power to revive memories, sometimes so intensely that they hurt.
At the time I felt as if every night I, too, were gazing out a porthole at a moon made of ice. A transparent, eight-inch-thick, frozen moon. But no one was beside me. I watched that moon alone, unable to share it's cold beauty with anyone.
I hope that in Denver Kitaru is happy. If it's too much to ask that he's happy, I hope at least that today he has his health, and all his need met. For no one knows what kind of dreams tomorrow will bring.
<An Independent Organ>
But I don't mind admitting that I'm a little envious of the way he loved one woman-so deeply that it made him want to reduce himself to nothing.
It feels like somehow our hearts have become intertwined. Like when she feels something, my heart moves in tandem. Like we're two boats tied together with rope. Even if you want to cut the rope, there's no knife sharp enough to do it.
Just as that woman likely lied to him with her independent organ, Dr. Tokai-in a somewhat different sense-used his independent organ to fall in love. A function beyond his will. With hindsight it's easy for someone else to sadly shake his head and smugly criticize another's actions. But without the intervention of that kind of organ-the kind that elevates us to new heights, thrusts us down to the depths, throws our minds into chaos, reveals beautiful illusions, and sometimes even drives us to death-our lives would indeed be indifferent and brusque. Or simply end up as a series of contrivances.
"You were hurt, a little, weren't you?" His wife had asked. "I'm human, after all. I was hurt." He'd replied. But that wasn't true. Half of it, at least, was a lie. I wasn't hurt enough when I should have been, Kino admitted to himself. When I should have felt real pain, I stifled it. I didn't want to take it on, so I avoided facing up to it. Which is why my heart is so empty now. The snakes have grabbed that spot and are trying to hide their coldly beating hearts there.
No matter how empty it may be, this is still my heart. There's still some human warmth in it. Memories, like seaweed wrapped around pilings on the beach, wordlessly waiting for high tide. Emotions that, if cut, would bleed. I can't just let them wander somewhere beyond my understanding.
And he prayed for dawn to come. All he could do was wait like this, patiently, until it grew light out and the birds awoke and began their day. All he could do was trust in the birds, in all the birds, with their wings and beaks. Until then, he couldn't let his heart go blank. That void, the vacuum created by it, would draw them in.
But the movement of time seemed not to be fixed properly. The bloody weight of desire and the rusty anchor of remorse were blocking it's normal flow. Time was not an arrow flying in a straight line.
Eyes shut, he felt that hand on his, soft and substantial. He'd forgotten this, had been apart from it for far too long. Yes, I am hurt. Very, very deeply. He said to himself. And he wept. In that dark, still room.
<Men Without Women>
Sounds are different in that world. So is the way you experience thirst. And the way your beard grows. And the way baristas at Starbucks treat you. Clifford Brown's solos sound different, too. Subway-car doors close in new and unexpected ways. Walking from Omote Sando to Aoyama Itchome, you discover the distance is no longer what it once was. You might meet a new woman, but no matter how wonderful she might be, from the instant you meet, you start thinking about losing her. The suggestive shadow of sailors, the sound of foreign tongues they speak, leaves you anxious. The name of exotic ports around the world unnerve you. Because you already know what it means to be Men Without Women. You are a pastel-colored Persian carpet, and loneliness is a Bordeaux wine stain that won't come out. Loneliness is brought over from France, the pain of the wound from the Middle East. For Men Without Women, the world is vast, poignant mix, very much the far side of the moon.