お目出たき人

A self‑conscious writer opens his notebook with a quiet manifesto about art that belongs to the self, then lets that claim dissolve into a restless confession. While strolling through a Tokyo side‑street on a crisp January morning, he spots two young women in vibrant kimono and, caught between curiosity and a lingering ache, admits that he feels “starved for women,” recalling a lost love from his teenage years that still haunts him.

The narrative shifts to his memory of a woman he calls “the crane”—a delicate, almost mythical figure who has been shadowing his thoughts since she first entered his life. He recounts his tentative plans to win her hand, the fear of gossip, and the tug‑of‑war between modest pride and a yearning for connection. Through this intimate, meandering monologue, listeners hear a portrait of loneliness, desire, and the fragile hope that an imagined partnership might finally fill the emptiness inside.