Even if you don't acknowledge it, people die, and guys sleep with girls. That's just how it is.

I stare at this ceaseless, rushing crowd and imagine a time a hundred years from now. In a hundred years everybody here-me included-will have disappeared from the face of the earth and turned into ashes or dust. A weird thought, but everything in front of me starts to seem unreal, like a gust of wind could blow it all away.

Maybe she thought the garbage and rocks in your head were interesting. But finally, garbage is garbage and rocks are rocks.

One of these days they'll be making a film where the whole human race gets wiped out in a nuclear war, but everything works out in the end.

No one could say how long that life would last. Whatever has form can disappear in an instant.

Something in her small eyes caught the sunlight and glistened, like a glacier on the faraway face of a mountain.

Sometimes I find it too hot to run, and sometimes too cold. Or too cloudy. But I still go running. I know that if I didn't go running, I wouldn't go the next day either. It's not in human nature to take unnecessary burdens upon oneself, so one's body soon becomes disaccustomed. It mustn't do that. It's the same with writing. I write every day so that my mind doesn't become disaccustomed.