Go, tell the others on campus, in the clubroom, that at Comiket - despite all blistering suns - the flowers of dreams yet bloom. In just this one day, I experienced so much! So how is it, then, That the weeks and months before remain dim and forgotten? This day in the line, fighting and laughing with friends, the world forgotten, I must not later forget when I am sorting all my goods. Sure that none would ever read his book again he still wrote those notes, sure that those thoughts were worth thought and would find a home some day. When I look upon the bales of abandoned books, I am saddened: by an enthusiastic pen, drawing for so many nights. Where the otaku have all vanished from the stairs and its rope linings, now stars pass the long night and papers rustle in the breeze. They argue harshly - but then, does ink hate paper? or paper the ink? Do not be misled! Their books are camouflage for the red strings of fate that they have shyly forged over the years, side by side. And with what shall I compare us? A boy walking through the warm spring night, as he leaves his friends, knowing just how few partings remain.
Loneliness - unknown until a chill pine wind blows; I shiver alone.