It is three or four years ago that I read books last. It happened at the midway point between now and the first year I had started to live in Matsumoto. After stopping reading books, I had some opportunities to read some books for graphic design, one of my job, but I never read books with a feeling that I want to read actively. Yes, the feeling had gone at that time. I became unable to stand in front of bookshelves at bookstores. I became unable to receive the passion and strong will of various writers in different periods—they overflew from tallest bookshelves, titles of spines and the smell of papers and caused me nausea. So, I stopped to read them. I sold more than half my collection of books.

In early summer of this year, I bought a book for the first time in a long time. If I were there more than four years ago, I could read novels which have volume of 300 pages in a day, but now I would need to do it for over one week. If I were there more than four years ago, I would have stocked other books which I read next, but now I don’t have them at all. I cannot read books that depict human being. Am I not fascinated with stories by human? Don’t I feel that human has no value?—I don’t know why. The book I’m now reading is about goshawks. The first book when I restarted to read was about crows and ravens.