By the time you read this letter, I will be tying another handkerchief to the cherry tree. When you read that letter one day, I will have turned into white handkerchiefs on the tongue of a cherry.
"Letter From Inside the Bottle That Hits the Shore" impressed me a lot. I am waiting for a letter. I've been waiting for a few months. But actually I've been waiting for days, months, years. It's like I came to this world to wait for that letter. I'll see it come, but I feel like I'm going to leave before I can read it. I've been feeling this way for a long time. Or, for a short while, I began to realize that I had been feeling this way for a long time. It's like I'm constantly waiting for the head of a cherry tree. It's like I'm constantly tying white handkerchiefs to cherry trees. It is evening, the handkerchiefs are waving, the letter does not come. Every morning a new cherry grows, a new white handkerchief is tied. The letter is not coming. This feeling throws me into the sea of emotions you described in the letter.
I wake up at night for no reason. I have a dark feeling. It's kneading around my stomach. Sometimes I call it my bitter water. It tastes on my tongue, I know it from there. Sometimes I call it the black stone of my heart, I know it does not crumble by looking at the sea. I diagnose him sometimes. I say melancholy, I know you from Freud. But it doesn't look like in the book, I'm just learning about it. Sometimes I show him the stars. I say, are you waking me up to look at the stars at exactly three in the night. There are two stars. The one we looked at together and the one we never looked at together. We see the fall of one, the clinging of the other to the night. Which one did I sink with, which one did I stay with? We don't know.
The bottle that washed up on the shore. It's a way of being that I've dreamed of for a long time. A random, unhurried call to the world. Don't go to sea by closing yourself in the affection of a bottle; knowledge of water. You impressed me so much with your letter title inside the bottle that washed up on the shore. It felt like a letter that I wrote myself and was written to me. The bottle in which I had sealed the words of a secret that could not be reached by sailing, a silence accumulating on the bottom of the seaweed and a womanhood trapped in the time of the oyster was as if breathing on the shores of your summer. Maybe a hand didn't come and open it. The own breathing of words opened its own cork cap. Just like that rose that we've been waiting for two seasons to bloom, when we gave up hope, it opened itself last night. Thank you so much for giving me such a simple experience!
I would like to continue the rest of the letter with my own letters in my notebook.
By the time you read this letter, I will be tying another handkerchief to the cherry tree.
When you read that letter one day, I will have turned into white handkerchiefs on the tongue of a cherry.
Name embroidered on handkerchief