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I began, and what I’m writing is headed in an unknown direction, but it feels as if I haven’t even begun, as if I’m hovering outside this story without even having entered it, and I could go on feeling, even as I go on writing this story, that I am just beginning, that I haven’t even begun when the story is over, that I’m back to square one in the end, and in order to make that happen, I may have to wrap up with a story that makes you feel that it’s going back to square one. Nevertheless, I feel that this story has begun to manifest some kind of an essence in some kind of a form.)
    I should limit what I talk about to certain subjects, since I can’t think about everything, and talk about everything I think about. I could begin with certain thoughts that have a strong or loose hold over me, and certain subjects made up of a series of these thoughts, things I’ve thought about for a long time and thought about linking together, death and travel and everyday life, for instance, and an overlapping mixture of these things, and see, with a bit of curiosity, how the subjects that I think could link together do link together in the story. In the process, I’ll add thoughts to certain memories, bring memories into certain ideas, and link separate images into successive images (this story is also a story about the process of writing a story).
    What if I began by talking about travel, which contains countless scenes from everyday life and is a metaphor for death? I could do that. But traveling isn’t something I like all that much. I do think about traveling a lot, but I haven’t actually done a lot of traveling, and although I don’t dislike traveling I don’t like it very much either. Perhaps I could rephrase this statement by saying that although I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I detest traveling, I could venture to say that I don’t like traveling that much (this story, in a way, is about rephrasing a sentence in different ways.)
    What it is that I’ll be writing seems to grow clearer as I recall, along with my memories about swallows, the travels I’ve done, and think about travel, which is considered an escape from mundane things and everyday life. This story could be a record of mundane things as well as a kind of a travelogue, a travelogue that contains casual yet cold ridicule on the many travelogues that praise and encourage traveling, and thus is for people who don’t like to travel, and it could be a story that could give some kind of a hint, although it wouldn’t serve as a good guide, on what to do when you don’t know what to do when you’re traveling, just as you didn’t know what to do when you weren’t traveling—if I were to write a real travel book, that’s the kind of book I’d write.
    And this could be a mixture of a journal and an autobiographical novel, something that’s difficult to put a name to, or it could be something that isn’t anything at all, or something that’s not something that isn’t anything at all.
    But I think I should hold off talking about travel until later. Right now there are other thoughts invading my mind. Other thoughts are invading me, holding me captive.
    What are the thoughts that are closest to me now, or, in other words, thoughts that are holding me captive, clinging to me and not letting go, by which I’m held captive? But couldn’t I say that I’m not letting go of the thoughts by which I’m held captive, that I’m clinging to the thoughts, instead of saying that I’m held captive by the thoughts? Anyway, the thoughts are such that the more you try to break free from them, the more you become captive, but at the same time, they are such that the more you let go, the longer they linger (this story is also something that digs up and pulls out something dreadful that exists in thought itself, as an intrinsic part of