Reaching the finish line, never walking, and enjoying the race. These three, in this order, are my goals.

The light of morning decomposes everything.

A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.

The problem was, I think, that the places I fit in were always falling behind the rimes.

[...] Shimamoto had her own little world within her. A world that was for her alone, one I could not enter.

Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.

It seems to me that very sad things always contain an element of the comical