This is a story about the hot springs in the ice and snow in Hokkaido and the love in the French garden. The man went from the western hemisphere to the eastern hemisphere for a Chinese woman with black hair and black eyes in a kimono, and returned from the eastern hemisphere for the blond French rose-like wife. A man's love is as hot and silent as a hot spring, trickling in the dense mist, flowing through the lives of the two women. The two women were like butterflies and roses in a hot spring, and they all sank in the water.
His butterfly, which condenses the confusion in his love life, is a picture frame by frame, a tangled desire. His roses simply gathered the hope in his love life. He loves the lightness and fragility of butterflies, with the strangeness and mystery of the East; he loves the brilliance and depth of roses, with the sunshine and heat of the west. Yes, he loved both, deeply and lost.
my dear master, do not be afraid. do not move, do not speak. no one will see us. stay as you are. I want to look at you.
When he hears the beginning of that letter, he is silent.
you will feel the warm but you do not know where.
the moment will from now till forever.
Then his eyes seem to have been soaked in the hot spring too.
His wife slept forever in the garden he built for her. He never thought that that kind of love would still exist after her death. It was a longing and a despair. When the rose dies, the butterfly is long gone.
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