Tonight's moonlight is so beautiful it makes me want to cry, but even the most gorgeous moonlight can't shine through every window. I just passed a tea shop glowing with warm yellow light. Inside the glass, someone was laughing, someone was arguing, and someone sat alone with coffee, staring into space. Everyone was playing their part, and I was just a spectator—no, perhaps not even that. I was merely a ghost passing by, stealing a glimpse of a play that wasn't mine.

Living, after all, is just finding little tricks in the mundane days to momentarily forget the void. Tonight, for instance, I became fascinated by a moth outside the window trying to fly into the light—how brave, and how foolish. Aren't we all just repeating its story?

Ah, I've rambled on about nothing. Don't mind me. The sun will rise again tomorrow, and perhaps I'll develop a new fondness for some withered tree.