Tokyo Ueno Station

But then what of me remains here?

A sense of tiredness.

I was always tired.

There was never a time I was not tired.

Not when life had its claws in me, and not when I escaped from it.

I did not live with intent, I only lived.

There was never a time I was not tired.

Not when life had its claws in me, and not when I escaped from it.

I did not live with intent, I only lived.

worst of all was how unlucky I was.

I had no luck.

I was always tired.

—
I used to think life was like a book: you turn the first page, and there’s the next, and as you go on turning page after page, eventually you reach the last one. But life is nothing like a story in a book. There may be words, and the pages may be numbered, but there is no plot. There may be an ending, but there is no end.

Left behind—

Time had passed, things had moved on, yet events I should have forgotten soon after they happened stayed with me, trailing behind me. . . .

It wasn’t that I wanted to die; it was just that I was tired of trying.

I do not think I was especially ugly, but I never had the kind of looks that would have attracted anyone’s attention

I was doing nothing wrong. The only thing I was guilty of was being unable to adjust. I could adapt to any kind of work; it was life itself that I could not adjust to. The pain of life, the sadness… and the joy…

I finished my drink while he was talking. Now that I had nothing left to drink, I felt uncomfortable—as if I was naked in front of him,