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murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

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what Kizuki and I shared when we were 16 and 17 has already<br />

vanished, and no amount of crying is going to bring that back. I can't<br />

explain it any better than this, but I think that you can probably understand<br />

what I felt and what I am trying to say. In fact, you are probably<br />

the only one in the world who can understand.<br />

I think of you now more than ever. It's raining today. Rainy Sundays<br />

are hard for me. When it rains I can't do laundry, which means I can't<br />

do ironing. I can't go walking, and I can't lie on the roof. About all I<br />

can do is put the record player on auto repeat and listen to Kind of<br />

Blue over and over while I watch the rain falling in the quadrangle. As<br />

I wrote to you earlier, I don't wind my spring on Sundays. That's why<br />

this letter is so damn long. I'm stopping now. I'm going to the dining<br />

hall for lunch. Goodbye.<br />

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