Making A Journey By Night Is More

Maybe My Passion Is Nothing Special, But At Least It's Mine.

A Very Long Time Ago, Grandmother Had Wanted To Tell About All The Things They Did, But No One Had Bothered To Ask. And Now She Had Lost The Urge.

Now Everything Was Changed. She Walked About With Cautious, Anxious Steps, Staring Constantly At The Ground, On The Lookout For Things That Crept And Crawled. Bushes Were Dangerous, And So Were Sea Grass And Rain Water. There Were Little Animals Everywhere. They Could Turn Up Between The Covers Of A Book, Flattened And Dead, For The Fact Is That Creeping Animals, Tattered Animals, And Dead Animals Are With Us All Our Lives, From Beginning To End. Grandmother Tried To Discuss This With Her, To No Avail. Irrational Terror Is So Hard To Deal With.

He Was The Owner Of The Moonlight On The Ground, He Fell In Love With The Most Beautiful Of The Trees, He Made Wreaths Of Leaves And Strung Them Around His Neck.

I Love Borders. August Is The Border Between Summer And Autumn; It Is The Most Beautiful Month I Know. Twilight Is The Border Between Day And Night, And The Shore Is The Border Between Sea And Land. The Border Is Longing: When Both Have Fallen In Love But Still Haven't Said Anything. The Border Is To Be On The Way. It Is The Way That Is The Most Important Thing.