The one who wanted to come, I wouldn't let him in. The one who came—it's not as if he forced his way. Still I keep staring at the door. This staring... is it waiting for one who'll never return, or is it some premonition of departure, or is this merely a kind of escapism— without bringing any of this to mind... I just keep staring at the door. Does time, then, not love time? Or is this contradiction of time something that happens only to me?
Contradiction
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