At the beginning I thought it must be her hair that had drawn him. With the colour that reminds me of golden wheat in the sunrise, her hair rests on her back, meekly, reassuringly, like an infant lying fast asleep. I wonder if he sees through her hair the promise of a good dream, where sweet, echoing melody rings, and a subtle scent permeates. At the beginning it was always the hair, the eyes, or the lips. At the beginning the truth had a hideous face.