Years.

War, like love, exists only in my imagination.

A flickering light. In this darkness, I exist only in my memory. A window. So many sounds. In it, there might exist the sound of my mulberry tree’s fall. Must I know?

Friends from my childhood rise and fall to this violin’s sound. The past is falling. Falling on me. My father once told me that I could come to him even if I kill someone.

So much light. In the darkness.

I must remember.

It’s the brightest before the end.

I exist only in my memory.