I am walking on streets aimlessly under autumn stars and musing on my hopeless situations because I am feeling that I can no longer endure my sufferings. Whenever any serious doubt about my ability to be a writer assails me, I encourage myself with positive examples to palliate myself, such as, “Think about Miller, who published his first book when he was forty-three years old. Think about Hamsun whose first book Hunger appeared after his twelve years of striving to write. Compared with them, you are not mature enough to write a book yet, mister! You are too young; therefore, you need more sufferings. Get more experiences first, since you are still like one of God’s innocent lambs that is just about to start walking. Your legs are still wobbling! You haven’t been punished enough yet! Why don’t you lift up your heavy ass, sir?” However, today my faith is completely shaking, and I cannot see any future for myself. Suddenly, panicking rage is beginning to overwhelm me, and I ask myself involuntary, “What are you doing in Japan, man? When are you really going to write your book in earnest? Have you ever thought about your everlasting abortive state seriously? Do you really let precious time continue elapsing without doing any serious writing?” “It’s high time for you to contemplate your future as a writer frankly and introspect yourself candidly, you idiot!” I say aloud while clenching my fist.