Nagoya, 23 June 1989

Dear Ayumi,

I tried; I promise.
I tried to build myself up a life without him.
But I slipped down.

The world, loaded with colourful flowers on green meadows opened up and devoured me with everything it was worth for to live.

Through that crash I noticed that even my blood that flood out of my arm in bulk is grey as well.
A dark grey, closer to black than the grey of my arm.
In a moment it will happen.
In a moment I will have arrived.

In a moment, after I have finished this letter, I will seal it and lay it down to all the other ones I've never sent you.
I was a coward.
I was scared you'd take my idea from me, stop me.
So I kept t a secret.
Maybe you are reading it one day.

Isn't this letter just as all the others?
I am talking about myself, blathering useless stuff.
However similar this letter is, it is written with my blood.
If you receive it one day, you'll at least have something from me.

It's Sunday.
The day of rest.
And that is exactly what it is for me: my day of rest.
Today I will smoke my last cigarette, drink my last liquor, look at his picture for the last time and listen to the birds singing the last time.

There is only one thing I will not: Stop loving him.
Just as you.
I love both of you.
Until the very last breath.

Never ending love,

Tadao