__ __ hy? It's simple, really. In order for me to think about something, I

	__ __ hy? It's simple, really. In order for me to think about something, I
	\ \ /\ / / have to first put it into writing.
	\ V V /
	\_/\_/ It's been that way since I was little. When I didn't understand
	something, I gathered up the words scattered at my feet, and lined them up into
	sentences. If that didn't help, I'd scatter them again, rearrange them in a
	different order. Repeat that a number of times, and I was able to think about
	things like most people. Writing for me was never difficult. Other children
	gathered pretty stones or acorns, and I wrote. As naturally as breathing, I'd
	scribble down one sentence after another. And I'd think.

	No doubt you think it's a time-consuming process to reach a conclusion, seeing
	as how every time I thought about something I had to go through all those
	steps. Or maybe you wouldn't think that. But in actual practice it did take
	time. So much so that by the time I entered elementary school people thought I
	was retarded. I couldn't keep up with the other kids.

	When I finished elementary school the feeling of alienation this gave me had
	lessened considerably. By then I'd found a way to keep pace with the world
	around me. Still, until I quit college and broke off any relations with
	officialdom, this gap existed inside me—like a silent snake in the grass.

	My provisional theme here: On a day-to-day basis I use writing to figure out
	who I am.

	Right?

	Right you are!

	I've written an incredible amount up till now. Nearly every day. It's like I
	was standing in a huge pasture, cutting the grass all by myself, and the grass
	grows back almost as fast as I can cut it. Today I'd cut over here, tomorrow
	over there. . . . By the time I make one complete round of the pasture the
	grass in the first spot is as tall as it was in the beginning.

	But since I met Miu I've barely written. Why is that? The Fiction =
	Transmission theory K told me does make sense. On one level there's some truth
	to it. But it doesn't explain everything. I've got to simplify my thinking
	here.

	Simplify, simplify.

	What happened after I met Miu was, I stopped thinking. (Of course I'm using my
	own individual definition of thinking here.) Miu and I were always together,
	two interlocking spoons, and with her I was swept away somewhere—someplace I
	couldn't fathom—and I just thought, OK, go with the flow.

	In other words, I had to get rid of a lot of baggage to get closer to her. Even
	the act of thinking became a burden. I think that explains it. No matter how
	tall the grass got, I couldn't be bothered. I sprawled on my back, gazing up at
	the sky, watching the billowy clouds drift by. Consigning my fate to the
	clouds.

	Giving myself up to the pungent aroma of the grass, the murmur of the wind. And
	after a time I couldn't have cared less about the difference between what I
	knew and what I didn't know.

	* * *

	Sputnik Sweetheart / Haruki Murakami

	* * *

	I saw them all suddenly