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But there was one major difference between us – more than I did, Shimamoto consciously wrapped herself in a protective shell. Unlike me, she made an effort to study the subjects she hated, and she got good marks. When the school dinner contained food she loathed, she still ate it. In other words, she constructed a much taller defensive wall around herself than I ever built. What remained behind that wall, though, was much the same as what lay behind mine.
Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She’d take one from its sleeve, place it carefully on the turntable without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to clean the cartridge of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently on to the record. When the record was finished, she’d spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she’d return the record to its sleeve and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her this procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in
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A simple change of scenery can bring about powerful shifts in the flow of time and emotions:
“Shimamoto-san. Will I see you again?” “Probably,” she replied. A smile played around her mouth. A smile like a small wisp of smoke drifting quietly skyward on a windless day. “Probably.”
Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free the world’s reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.
Because memory and sensations are so uncertain, so biased, we always rely on a certain reality – call it an alternate reality – to prove the reality of events.
No one will weave dreams for me – it is my turn to weave dreams for others.
If you gathered together all the shades of blue in the world and picked the bluest, the epitome of blue, this was the colour you would choose.
