Autumn is coming. Trees are becoming bare, and so is my heart. Nothing has changed dramatically, except that I have a whole lot of time. In spite of that, money is running out day by day. Either I cannot write anything or cannot concentrate on my study. Something must be bothering my conscience. I should escape from Japan before I am out of my mind, that is crystal clear to me. It has been for two months without a job, but I have not done anything tangible yet; I have been only moping around and feeling sorry for my lot. Three years ago, a year ago, I believed that I was born to be a writer and was so sure of that I would start writing a book when the time was right. But when? I am not sure about it anymore. I have been approaching the end of thirty-three years old, and in two months, I will be thirty- four years old! When I think that I have struggled in vain to write for over eight years and have not produced anything, I become furious. However, when depression assails me, I always make excuses to myself to avoid brooding about my abortive striving, because if I do not, I am certain that I will jump out from a skyscraper with no hesitation.