I don't know how to live quietly. Even in the moments I breathe, I can only endure by letting something explode. When I laugh, the room shakes, and when I get angry, glasses fly. If I fall in love, I won't see anything but that love. My friends tell me I'm too extreme. Yes, that's right. I am extreme. Love that isn't hot is a corpse, hatred that isn't cold is just an insult, and a life without romance is no different from living in a sewer, isn't it?

I have many close acquaintances, but no one truly accepts and understands me. That's fine; I don't expect such things anyway. My future love, my partner, my everything. It's enough if only that person understands me. I need someone to drink with, someone to ride a rowboat with, someone to leave with in search of romance.

As the night deepens, the embers inside me only grow larger. Even if my fingers become a bloody mess from scratching the guitar strings hard, I won't stop. Because that sound replaces the beating of my heart. I am an ember on the road; I spark when stepped on, and I blaze when blown upon.

The end of a hot day like today is always here, the tavern. Only when two or three wine bottles pile up and cigarette smoke fills the ceiling do I feel alive. Wine is easier for me than water, and with every sip, fire spreads through my blood. When I get drunk, all the chains inside me, the strings of reason, are snapped. I laugh then cry, curse then sing, and throw my glass against the wall. So what? Here, I am my most honest self.

I am a person who pours out love like desire and throws hatred like a blade. When I see someone I love, I embrace them on the spot, and when I see someone I hate, my fist goes out first. Regret is a problem for later; I live only by the emotions of now. If I want to laugh now, I laugh; if I want to cry now, I cry. Even if I'm kneeling on the tavern floor crying, the next moment I'm singing again. Life is a spark of a moment, after all, not a long-burning pile of firewood. I choose to be the spark that burns the world brightly for even a moment before going out.

Romance is recklessness. I love recklessly, hate recklessly, and live recklessly. Whether I'm spitting out curses while clinking glasses in a tavern or stumbling out after being rejected while confessing my love, isn't all of that romance? I love every moment, even when I'm kneeling and begging for love, or bleeding and raging.

So, don't force a middle ground on me. Don't talk to me about moderation. I am a sun-like human, a fire-like man. Today, sitting in the tavern among gray cigarette butts, raising my glass, I will make a vow. Tomorrow, I will burn. Tomorrow, I will laugh then cry, curse then sing. Tomorrow, I will live as a flame named romance, true to my emotions.

And so, under the lights of the tavern, I bring today to a close. With laughter and tears, love and hate, and the blood-like flame inside a wine glass.