I'm the kind of person who has to totally commit to whatever I do.

Artists are those who can evade the verbose.

You know, the usual story. Once upon a time I was playing my harp by a spring when a fairy appeared out of nowhere, handed me a Beretta Model 92, and told me to shoot the white rabbit over there for target practice.

In certain areas of my life, I actively seek out solitude. Especially for someone in my line of work, solitude is, more or less, an inevitable circumstance. Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person's heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time steadily cuts away at me from the inside.

No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.

Death leaves cans of shaving cream half-used.

In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life.