Lying on my back with a hot water bottle on my stomach, I decided to tell Tetsu something.

This is not Calmotin. It’s called henomotin. 　I was about to say, “This is not a calmotine, but a heno-motine,” but he laughed. 　Crippled, apparently, this is a comedic noun. He took a laxative to try to sleep, and the laxative’s name was Henomotin. 　Now I have neither happiness nor unhappiness. 　Just one day goes by. 　In the so-called “human world” where I have been living in agony, there is only one thing that I can be happy and unhappy about. 　In the world of human beings, only one thing seemed to me to be true. 　Just a season passes. 　I will be twenty-seven this year. My gray hair has grown so much that most people think I am over forty. ［Afterword. I do not know directly the madman who wrote this memoir. However, I do know a person who appears in this memoir, who seems to be the madam of a stand bar in Kyobashi. She was small, pale, with narrow, upturned eyes and a high nose. It seems that this memoir mainly describes the scenery of Tokyo in 1930, 1931, 1932, 1936, and 1937. 　It was around the 10th year of the Showa Era (1935), when the military was beginning to blatantly go to war with Japan, that I was unable to meet the man who wrote this memoir.

It was around the 10th year of the Showa Era (1935), when the military was beginning to blatantly go to war with Japan, that I was unable to meet the man who wrote this memoir. 　However, in February of this year, I visited a friend who had evacuated to Funabashi City, Chiba Prefecture. I had asked this friend to arrange a marriage for one of my relatives, so I decided to go to Funabashi with a backpack on my back to buy some fresh seafood and feed it to my family members. I went to Funabashi City with a backpack on my back. 　Funabashi was a fairly large city facing the Muddy Sea. I could not easily find the house of my friend, a new resident, even if I asked the local people the address of the house. 　I recognized the madam there, and when I asked her about it, she turned out to be exactly the same madam of the small bar in Kyobashi that I had met ten years ago. The madam seemed to immediately recognize me, and we laughed and laughed, and then, as is customary in such situations, we talked about our mutual experience of being burned out in an air raid, as if we were proud of it, even though we had not been asked about it. 　You, however, have not changed.

You, however, have not changed. 　No, I am an old woman. Your body is shattered. You are the young one. 　No, of course not. I already have three children. Today I’m going shopping for them. 　We exchanged the usual greetings between people who have not seen each other for a long time, and then inquired about the whereabouts of our mutual acquaintance. When I replied that I did not, she went to the back and brought out three notebooks and a photograph of Mitsuba, and handed them to me. 　You might be able to use them as material for a novel," she said. 　She said, “I don’t know about that. 　I am not the type of person who can write with materials forced on her by others, so I thought about giving them back right away, but I was so taken by the photos (I have already written about the strangeness of the Sanba photos in my postcard) that I decided to leave the notebooks with her anyway, and on my way back I would stop by here again to ask her what address in what town she lived in. I asked him if he knew where the woman who taught at a women’s college lived. I asked him if he knew where the woman, a teacher at a women’s college, lived. It was right in the neighborhood. 　That night, my friend and I exchanged a few drinks and decided to stay the night.

That night, my friend and I exchanged a few drinks and decided to stay the night. 　Although the story in her notebooks was of a bygone era, I am sure it would be of considerable interest to people of today. It would have been more useful if I had asked some magazine to publish it, rather than adding my own words to it. 　The only souvenirs I brought for the children were dried seafood. I left my friend’s place with my backpack on my back and stopped at a coffee shop in Nai. 　Thanks for yesterday. By the way, I’d like to introduce myself to you at …… 　I immediately said, “By the way, I’ve been borrowing this notebook for a while. 　Can I borrow this notebook for a while? 　Yes, please. 　Is this person still alive? 　I don’t know, but I have no idea. About 10 years ago, a parcel with the notebook and photos was sent to a store in Kyobashi, and the sender was identified as Ip-chan, but there was no address or even name of Ip-chan on the parcel. During the air raid, it was mysteriously saved among other things, and I read it all for the first time the other day. …… 　Did you cry? 　No, it was more like crying.

Did you cry? 　No, it was more like crying. …… No, people can’t be like that anymore. 　Ten years later, you may be dead. I guess he sent this to me as a thank-you. I know I exaggerate a little in some parts, but it seems that you have suffered a lot, too. If all this were true, and I were his friend, I might have wanted to take him to a brain hospital after all. 　It’s her father’s fault. 　He said that in a casual way. 　The Ip-chan we knew was very honest, very witty, and if only she didn’t drink, no, even if she did, she was a good girl, like a ……