Could it be that the rain has delayed the letter? It didn’t come today, but Ah-bing did telephone. It certainly seemed as though he had something important to ask me, but since I hadn’t received the letter, there was no way for him to press the issue further. From the sound of his voice, he seemed to be in a better mood than when we spoke previously; he had a lot more to say this time. He told me of his work unit, how he had finished his studies and was now working for a publisher in the south, presumably as an editor. But an editor of what I don’t know – he didn’t say. Still, considering what he studied at university, an editor seems most fitting. After all, he studied contemporary European literature – so if he wasn’t an editor, what could he be? I certainly can’t think of anything else.

I’ve been to the city he works in once. It was a pretty little place. The streets were lined with flowers, all very romantic. Most of them were cherry trees, which practically every city has now planted along their main arteries. It was easy to imagine the scene in spring, when the trees would be in flower: the streets would be painted in a pinkish brilliance, blossoms would fill the sky like snowflakes, they’d drift along like white downy clouds, the air would be filled with a sweet fragrance. I could swear I caught the scent of the flowers myself.

I also knew something else about this city, something I learnt from history books. According to those books, a century ago it was ravaged by a massive earthquake; countless people had perished, perhaps in the tens of thousands. Fifty years ago, it was the scene of a famous and incredibly bloody military campaign. According to those same books, countless people had died in the fighting. I often thought that the land under the city must be filled with the bones of all of these dead, perhaps several tons of human remains. Cherry blossom and human remains certainly didn’t seem to go together, but I couldn’t think of one without the other. Ah, what does it matter? Being aware of certain truths, certain connections isn’t necessarily wrong. Being aware of too much could be considered an illness, but most definitely not wrong. And since it’s not wrong, it shouldn’t matter if one speculates on it a bit. In truth, I know, thinking of such things is my way of distancing myself from something else. My mind’s in a mess, a complete and total mess.

27 March

Dormitory. Night. Fine.