To publish what one has written—there may be resistance in that. Retirement, seclusion—they have a certain allure. Obscurity and privacy hold their own beauty. The burning of posthumous manuscripts. But if so, what meaning is there in writing at all? Dreams need no pen. I am not the kind of person who keeps a journal. And so, I forget. What remain are gentle memories, stripped of detail—even if their form is lost.

And yet, another thought arises. A person stands at the river’s edge. They toss a small pebble. It skips a few times and sends ripples across the surface. The ripples stir others, a chain reaction unfolds. Even if, in the end, all fades away… might that not still be something joyful? That is why I began this blog. Welcome to LeftLand.