after midnight

This is the first time writing from the phone. It is indeed uncomfortable. Typing has become less natural, and I am frustrated by its non rapidity.

Read Murakami’s After the Quake on the train. I was contemplating whether to bring The Myth of Sisyphus with me, and six hours later, I am finished with Murakami and feel already exhausted of options. There’s a certain easiness when reading Murakami, that lingers with you after a while. The stories are sometimes memorable, sometimes not. Of everyday occurence. No one morning turning into a horrible vermin or overly metaphorical snow of death that covers all the living and the dead. It is easily recognisable, relatable and pulls the reader right into the setting of the story.

I have been to Kobe, for perhaps only not more than an hour. It was already four thirty when I arrived, raining, and the city looked sort of dead. Perhaps there are the occassional tourist attraction but it is not one I am fascinated with. The lady at the tourist centre recommended me to buy an umbrella. And so I did, walking in the rain arriving at some sort of western village nearby. Too depressed by the sombre rain, confused by road names, I gave up and passed through the houses instead.

I try to conjure up some of the places mentioned in the stories, the train lines linked from one place to another, and found the overall mood sort of enchanting. Sometime during reading I suddenly remembered the dream I had this morning, where I had been going to some villa of some other. I always have recurring dreams. I was passing through a highway where a stadium was being built, and the old highway overlooked the whole construction that we stopped and took a look. The whole dream was grained. One of these days I ought to record them all down.

It is raining outside, and I must be up in three hours to wake up A. We ought to be studying.

I like her new place.