Yellows have not been red, redness has not been painted on the
wall. In the morning, it is found on the other side of Mount Izaku, but there is no Vazana. The bright knot of the snow-dead, all the work of chaos, is on the glass of every window.
"Vazana" is not clear, I am saddened by this guest house whose day is dark, which is not known to each other: a few sleepy people, a few rough people, a few unconscious people.
