The morning market at 6 a.m.
Before dawn fully broke, tricycles lined up at the market entrance. The tofu vendor lifted a corner of her white cloth, and steam poured through the gap like a small river.
No chasing trends, no reviews—just writing down what I see and think. Morning markets, rereading old books, train tickets found on rainy days, and words left unsaid.
Before dawn fully broke, tricycles lined up at the market entrance. The tofu vendor lifted a corner of her white cloth, and steam poured through the gap like a small river.
Fifteen years ago, reading "Border Town," I remembered the ferry. This time, it was this line that stayed with me: "This person may never return, or perhaps they will come back tomorrow."
Some say "slow down," others say "leave space," and still others say, "Take your time—finish your meal first." I've realized that all these gentle reminders aren't about logic.
Found a bus ticket from three years ago; the paper is so brittle I dare not touch it. Back then, I took route 17 to work every day, and the windows were always fogged up.
Don't wait until you "feel like it" to start writing. The feeling comes by the third line, just like a room warms up only after the stove is lit.
Boil noodles in 3 minutes, heat water for 5 minutes, and set the table in 1 minute. But what truly brings peace of mind is the familiar scent of cooking oil rising from the kitchen.