The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Countless roads lie before them, but in the end all rivers flow into the sea.

This hope is a flower that bears no fruit, just as everything else is fruit without flowers.

On cloudless nights, the moon illuminates the entire room, not with daylight’s intense glare, but seemingly through a veil, bathing the room with a gentle radiance.

Like the center of a pearl—which is actually a rough grain of sand—coarse sand is the material of which gossip is made.

the world of rumor, fact cannot be separated from fiction; there is truth within lies, and lies within the truth.

But, old school or new, gossip is always told in earnest—you could even say it is told in the spirit of truth.

is the time when rumors and gossip start to brew. It is a gloomy hour, when nothing is clear, yet it is enough to break the heart. Pigeons coo in their cages, talking their language of secret whispers.

These rumors cling to the skin and stick to the flesh; they are not cold or stiff, like a pile of musty old books. Though marred by untruths, these are falsehoods that have feeling.

What emerges from the front doors and balconies is a bit more proper—but it is still gossip. These rumors may not necessarily qualify as history, but they carry with them the shadows of time.

The rooftop ridges rise and fall, extending into the distance; viewed from the side, they form an endless mountain range, and from the front, a series of vertical summits. Viewed from the highest peak, they merge into one boundless vista that looks the same from all directions.