"As he gazed at the four names on the screen, and considered the memories those names brought back, he felt the past silently mingling with the present, as a time that should have been long gone hovered in the air around him. Like odorless, colorless smoke leaking into the room through a small crack in the door."
— Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami
