Короче, Хироши — это 100% я, когда всегда.
Hiroshi, who had a regular office job, was absent-mindedly imagining things. He was imagining what it would be like if, after the man rushed out of his flat in a righteous fury, the woman who had just died got to her feet, clothes torn and hair bedraggled, and heated up some frozen lasagna in the microwave. How she would then take it out and eat it on the sofa. The gaping holes in her chest rimmed in dark red. This was what Hiroshi always did without intending to. As he followed the story on screen, there was always one corner of his mind picturing the continuation of the scene that had just ended, as if it was a gateway to a parallel world.
Thus there was a place in Hiroshi’s head where Luke was still dragging along his dead father’s body, swathed in its black mask and long cloak. Hiroshi knew full well that the cloaked figure had by now already been cremated and everything, but inside his mental universe, that moment where Luke was desperately dragging his dead father stretched on and on eternally. Through all the labyrinthine passages of the Death Star, through the forest, through the desert, Luke continues dragging his father’s body. The flame of his life has expired, his cloak has turned white with sand, and Luke himself has reached the limits of his strength, yet still he continues to drag his father. His chest is heavy with sadness, and he has no idea where they will end up. When he imagines the two of them like that, Hiroshi starts to feel tears pricking his eyes.