I open the door, just like any other morning,


and a thousand memories race through my mind, vying to be the first.


I choose the least harsh among them—though life itself is harsh.


I wonder: "What day is it?" and move forward, accompanied by the passing years.


I feel an overwhelming urge to arrive late for work.


On the way, I smell nothing but autumn.


It seems I have become adept at taking detours.


I traverse every winding path, trying to avoid the straight road:
"I love you."