Takehiko Fukunaga: Flowers of Grass

A man this ill is certain to die before long. This reality - this sole reality now available to me - is the only life I've been given. After a long period of self delusion, that's the unpleasant truth I've had to accept. I'll never wake up until I die, which is bound to happen soon. My experience of life doesn't deserve to be called living. My thirty years - college until graduation, then a job for a while, then the army, and finally this sanatorium - have run their dreary, futile course. I can neither change the past nor embrace the future. I have no present or future, only a past.