I cannot write. The prose I wrote at age ten happened to catch the eyes of many. Is this inability to write a punishment for my younger self, who was hailed as a child prodigy and grew conceited? Now I am twenty. I am no longer praised, and I have been forgotten by the memories of the people. A fierce inferiority complex toward the geniuses who were praised from a young age and continue to be so even now. The place where I once belonged is no more.

The illusions of myself are lost with age. I am mediocre, and out of date. I know this. I have known this for a long time. Even knowing, I let my mediocre and outdated brush run. To write a masterpiece of this life that leaves me empty. If I could reach such a pinnacle of words, I would not mind if it were my end.

"If only I could become a genius."

Another day, while walking aimlessly in search of material, I found myself lost in a back alley before I knew it. Following my curiosity, I found a shop with a certain atmosphere, somewhat suspicious, like a cheap candy store. Why would such a place be here? As I watched in spite of myself, a large man with orange hair emerged from behind the shop curtain.