Origami of Murakami

You can't look around. Fixed sitting in one ugly pose, neither you are able to return to reality, nor to dreaming. Your mind is focused on a continuum fall of several years climb. There is no single possibility to stop time of this existence. Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting. Pain turns inevitable. Suffering is optional. Reason heartlessly gives up itself to logic -- the only source of ultimate madness and rigor. Start breathing. Breathe. Breathe again. Deeper. Don't feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story. I think even if the saddest story is ok, it becomes true by being interesting. We submit to its appeal and the story creates an intrigue, affects us, giving away everyone's thoughts. Don't feel sorry for affections, appearances, dreams, stories and dramas. Just live as if you are a ticking clock. Everyone has a clock inside his heart. It just ticks. Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star. It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.