The air of the countryside is gloomy and oppressive, the touch of the countryside is gritty and sickening, when I sometimes think of the countryside,… - Sakutarō Hagiwara

Thus I make poetry. Like the moths that swarm around a lantern, deceived by the phantom of certain flowery mysterious sentiments, trying to touch the essence of invisible reality, I vainly flap, flap my wings as fragile as sponge cake. I am a pitiable fantasizing child, the sad fate of a moth.

Ah what's asleep in this large city night
is the shadow of a single blue cat
the shadow of a cat that speaks of the sad history of mankind
the blue shadow of the happiness I never stop longing for.

In one room of some madhouse there was a man who sat on a chair all day, doing nothing but stare at the hands of a clock every day. Here was probably the most bored human being in the world, who didn't know what to do with "time," or so I thought. But the reality was the opposite, as the director of the house explained to me. This unhappy person thinks life is constant activity. He doesn't want to waste a single moment of his life, and lest he squander valuable time, he's staring at the clock like that, every day. Say something to him, and he'll angrily bark, "Shut up! Now another second of my valuable time passes. Time is life! Time is life!"