In the details we meet, within the five roads or the five lines, on the staff of a drunken jazz at dusk.

In the untuned notes, in the disordered we find ourselves, in the small things we fall in love, in the insignificant things.

Escalators, a crack in the subway, slippers, pajamas, a jar of pickles in the fridge, the sandwich, an old favorite book, the knife the weapon, childhood, the shape of your breast, the voices in the head, ho-ho, a parade scream wonder, lying in puberty a warm anxiety.

With such materials, Tengo and Aomame craft their map to find each other.

But until they unite, time merges with place, the calendar with the map, the hourglass with the compass, they merge, they go mad, they become their true selves and explode into two pale and green moons made of paper.

And they never end, they never end.

Nor does Haruki Murakami's masterful magnum opus end, not really. The narrative simply lowers its gaze and hides as it likes to do, hides between the great Never and the smallest Always, breathes, longs, dreams, and triumphantly, unyieldingly falls silent. Then, it gets uprooted again and goes out into the streets, wandering, puzzled, love-struck, the narrative goes out into the clumsy staff of jazz and continues, and continues.

And so we meet, and so we fall in love again...