Only occasionally, I see her in subway trains. I know her and she knows me. Every time we meet, she gives me a thank-you-for-the beer smile. We haven’t exchanged words since then, but I feel that we are connected somewhere at our hearts. I don’t know where we are connected, but I’m sure the knot is somewhere in a strange distant world.
I imagine the knot. The knot lies silently in the dark corridor where no one walks along. When I am thinking in this way, many dear old memories gradually return to my mind. There must be a knot that connects me and myself. I’m sure someday I will meet myself in the strange distant world. And I wish it was a warm place. And if there was some cold beer, I would have nothing to complain. In the world I am myself and myself is me. The subject is the object and the object is the subject. There is no opening of any kind between the two. They are closely stuck together. Such a strange place must exist somewhere in the world.
Haruki Murakami - The Girl from Ipanema, 1963/1982