Mr. Floating Dream just wants to write

[I don't have anything, all I have is the seemingly endless fantasy in my mind, but what can I do?In this world, the most indispensable thing is fantasy. I have never seen my future, nor my past.

Yes, I have no past and no future, I am a ghost.A lonely ghost living in the hustle and bustle. When I feel a little warmth and smile because of the children's play, my heart will be filled with loneliness and disgust that are thousands of times stronger than the warmth.

So, I realized more clearly that I was floating outside the human world, and I was a ghost.

...]

The nib of the pen draws a full stop, and the black ink smudges slightly on the white paper. The owner of the pen just sits there, no longer making any movements, as if he has fallen into a deep sleep.

The wall clock on the wall was ticking. In this somewhat empty room, it could be described as noisy. Without the rustling of the pen on the paper, the sound of the clock was even more obvious.

I don't know how long it took, it seemed that even the walking time stopped, and the rustling sounded again.

【…

ghost.

Why is it a ghost alone?I can't figure it out, I'm like an idler who didn't know the world in ancient times and was just sad and annoying, expressing his thoughts and thoughts in a very empty way.If I let others see it, I'm afraid they will just laugh at it and say, 'Moan without illness'.

However, the pen in my hand is the only thing I have left. It is my weapon, my life, and even more my belief. This is the whole meaning of my existence. 】

The rustling sound stopped again, and the pen was covered and placed on top of the paper smoothly.The owner of the text stood up and came to the small window, which was a bit like an old prison cell.The light that was not too strong shone in through the small window and the fence, illuminating half of the face at the same time.

Slender, pale, sickly, beautiful.

Just like the beauty of Monomono, which was sung by people in the Heian period, you can feel the silent beauty just by looking at it.

"Go out... let's go." The man between the boy and the youth, the man who made it difficult to distinguish, said, with emotions like a breeze in his tone, like a sigh, like meaningless, and like lonely.It's hard to imagine that there are so many light words, but the same extremely light emotions.

The door was closed, blocking the prison-like window and the sunlight that came in.

There are people coming and going on the street, which is a rich atmosphere of life, and it is a completely different world from that small room.

Just like the sentence I said before, the man just walked around without any purpose. Compared with the people who passed by, the man looked like an ancient nobleman, who was peaceful and slow that did not match modern people, and his clothes were also different. It’s not the same. There are no patterns on the black yukata, and the boots are not clogs on the feet. Naturally, the outer matching is not a haori, but a more Western-style cloak. It is completely Taisho era dress up.

The man had written 'ghost' before, and yes, he was like a ghost, out of place in this world.

In fact, not only that, the place where the man is, is like a singularity, where guys from different worlds intertwine. It doesn't matter if the time is different, he seems to be the only one in this world who has this ability, if it is someone else, he might be ecstatic.

But men are not, as described above, slender, pale, sickly, beautiful, with ancient elegance, quiet beauty, and the unique temperament of literati, of course, this is not all men, because some have space, some Time will not make a man so comfortable, but a man just wants to write something, just like what he wrote, the pen in his hand is the whole meaning of his existence.

The special ability also makes the man's time disorderly entangled. He is alive and dead, and he is a ghost in the true sense.

"Don't come here! Otherwise, I'll kill this man!"

Accidents always come suddenly, the man lowered his eyes slightly, his thick and slender eyelashes looked like the wings of a butterfly.Compared with the screaming onlookers, the man's attitude was rather indifferent. He looked at the knife across his neck, and his thoughts flew to nowhere.

In Yokohama, being hijacked suddenly, being killed, being involved in a gang fight, and being killed by explosives seems to be quite normal. This is the daily life of the people of Yokohama.

The brain was thinking wildly, and the expression on his face did not waver at all. When he was rescued, the man finally pulled his thoughts back. Not only was there a policeman comforting him on the opposite side, but there was also a policeman who didn't look like a policeman but was not innocent. victim's person.

Ignoring the comfort and inquiries from the policeman, the man hesitated and said word by word: "Tiger?"

The white-haired boy in front of him was suddenly startled, and took two steps back, as if realizing that his reaction was too strange, the boy smiled a little guilty, "You, what are you talking about?"

Atsushi Nakajima looked at the man who looked away, and heaved a sigh of relief. This man is really too sharp, but he looks like an ordinary person?In addition to looking better, the attitude is a little colder.

Just when Atsushi Nakajima was thinking so wildly, his ears caught the sound of something falling.He looked over and saw that it was a hand account, which looked quite historical.Atsushi Nakajima picked up the note and looked around, trying to find the figure of the man, but strangely, there was no trace of the man, which should be very noticeable.

Atsushi Nakajima lowered his head, opened the note, and wanted to find clues about its owner, but it was full of bits and pieces, words he couldn't understand, and the only thing he could make out was at the very beginning, located on his hand. On the first page of the account, a line of writing in the lower right corner.

Atsushi Nakajima tried his best to identify it, "Floating...meng?" There was a trace of doubt in his eyes, no matter how you look at it, it doesn't look like a person's name, does it?

Atsushi Nakajima, who returned to the detective agency with his handbook, caught a faint scent of a certain flower after staying away from the crowd.Only then did I realize that the smell came from the handbook.

"So you brought it back?" Kunikida Doppo pushed down his glasses, his eyes were quite sharp, and Atsushi Nakajima, feeling the pressure, nodded, not daring to speak.

Kunikida Doppo sighed, took the notebook, "Although I took it back, I can't find the owner like this." Trying to find some clues in the pocketbook, Kunikida Doppo carefully read every word in the notebook, With each word, the expression on his face gradually became strange.

"Is the owner of this account an author?" Turning to the first page of the account, Kunikida Doppo thoughtfully, looking at the handwriting in the lower right corner, "Floating dream? Feeling, where have you heard it before?" Working hard Doppo Kunikida, who was thinking about where he had heard the name before, was puzzled as to where he had heard it.

"Huh? Show me." At some point, Edogawa Ranpo who appeared next to him took the account, flipped through it a few times, raised his eyebrows, and ran towards the president's office.

"President! It's Mr. Floating Dream's account book!"

So caught off guard, everyone in the company was stunned.

Compared with the surprise and surprise of the detective agency, the man's side is naturally more troubled.

"Is it lost?" The man whose pen name is Fumeng and whose real name is unknown frowned slightly, so he will be called Mr. Fumeng here.Mr. Fumeng's slightly frowned brows relaxed quickly again. He sat in front of the table, looked at the strings of words on the paper, calmed down, put the paper full of words aside neatly, and again Picked up the pen and buried his head.

The room was so quiet that it was hard to imagine that this elegant man, like a man who could only be shaped by countless gold and jade treasures, lived in this somewhat empty and small room.But this is not something worth caring about for Fumeng. For him, only the pen in his hand, the writing in his hand, and the words in his heart are the things worth caring about.

He is not a well-known writer, and he does not think he is a person with literary talent. He is just writing something, even if the reader is only himself, it is enough to satisfy people.

As if thinking of something, the corners of Mr. Floating Dream's mouth twitched slightly, but he quickly calmed down again, put the pen aside, and sat there quietly.

This is probably the experience that everyone who devotes himself to writing will have. He wants to write something, but there seems to be nothing to write.He neither cares about the evaluation of others, but also longs for understanding from others.So complex yet so pure.With a passion for blood, writing as a sword, wielding ink as a sword, with infinite reverie, but finally defeated by reality.

The man who was thinking about it like this finally picked up a pen and wrote this sentence on the white paper.

【世界はいつも反雑すぎます.

The world is always too complicated and chaotic. 】

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The author has something to say:

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What I write is a little bit boring. After all, I really don’t have any literary talent. I hope everyone will include it.

Wen Ye hasn't read manga and novels yet, but he will make up for them gradually, um.