From the day I was born, and along the way I grow up, the foremost person who is capable to forgive my every minor and even heavy fault, the very woman who holds my happiness above her own, is nobody but my mother.

If the units of spume with instant life come to be awake, they will unhesitatingly reflect themselves with the rainbow of illusion, and be colored by graceful colors; they will firmly compare their bursting apart to glorious sacrifice, and feel located in a tragedy as heroes. I eulogize the fairy and lofty spume.

Sometimes we need a reason for what we are constantly doing. But once the reason is swayed by another one, it will not be supplanted but rather they cancel out together with all our constancy.

If regret is a reminder for a short period, it is nothing at all; but if the regret would remind you of your fault for a very long time, it is valuable.

If I have to choose between what I am supposed to do and feel like doing, I would choose the latter because it is let down quickly while the former is never lacking.

I am reading a book with my back against the sunlight, and my mother is sleeping in a cozy bed. We both need a place for rest, of which mine is evasion of affective illness, and hers that of physical fatigue. But neither of the two places takes good effect, since we both don't easily break away from our roles —impotent is my mother, and incorrigible myself.

Along with a man, the weakness and the dignity are not really incompatible, and perhaps dignity is reflected some more in the endurance of inevitable weakness.