User:Idiffer/Sandbox3
If you had to choose between a silent place and a lively place, which would you prefer? Если бы вам пришлось выбирать между тихим и оживленным местами, какое бы вы предпочли?
A silent place when you want to read a book or study? Тихое место, когда хотите почитать книгу или позаниматься?
A lively place when you want to hang out with friends or eat something? Оживленное место, когда хотите потусить с друзьями или что-нибудь съесть?
Depending on your purpose, your preference might change. В зависимости от целей ваши предпочтения могут меняться.
But even if it suits your purpose, a place that is too silent will make you uneasy and a place that is too lively will annoy you. Но даже если место подходит для вашей цели, от слишком тихого места вам станет не по себе, а слишком оживленное начнет раздражать.
Be it silence or liveliness, it's all a matter of degree. Будь то тишина или оживленность - все зависит от степени.
That said, of the two, I happen to prefer silence a bit more - most likely because I am used to quiet places. Но так получилось, что тишину я предпочитаю несколько больше - скорее всего потому что привык к тихим местам.
What I am getting at is: Вот к чему я клоню:
The Tsukumodo Antique Shop is as dead silent as ever. Антикварный магазин Цукумодо как всегда мертвецки тих.
One might compare it to the soft slumber of being in the womb. Можно сравнить это с мягким сном будучи в утробе.
While I was giving myself over to a silence that bundled me up in a blanket of cozy warmth, a bubble slowly rose beside me. В то время, как я предавался тишине, укутывавшей меня одеялом уютной теплоты, рядом со мной медленно поднимался пузырь.
I touched it. Я дотронулся до него.
It burst into a "Re". Он лопнул со звуком ре.
Another bubble came floating upwards. Еще один пузырь поплыл вверх.
I touched it. Я дотронулся до него.
It burst into a "Fa" this time. Этот лопнул со звуком фа.
One after another, the bubbles rose around me. Один за другим вокруг меня начали подниматься пузыри.
One, two, three—no, more. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred, more. More, more. Один, два, три - нет, больше. Сто, двести, триста, больше. Больше, больше.
At last, the notes started to burst from the bubbles without my touch; they burst into notes of music. And these countless notes eventually grew into a melody. Наконец ноты начали вырываться из пузырей без моего прикосновения; они лопались в музыкальные ноты. И эти бесчисленные ноты со временем слились в мелодию.
This was the womb of a mother of music. Это была And I was one of the few permitted to step into this realm.
My duty was to gather those notes as they were born and bring them to the world outside.
Here, nothing existed but me and the notes.
There were no other humans, nor any other noises.
It was just me and the newborn notes.
"———"
There was an intrusion from outside.
It felt like being inside a water balloon as it is popped by a needle.
In the resultant destruction everything was scattered.
The slumber I had indulged in and the silence—everything—crumbled away.
The newborn sounds streamed away. They seeped away through my fingers.
I was forced back to consciousness.
I was in the same room as always.
The sheets of music on the table before me were filled with notes.
When I was in the world of sounds, my hand would automatically write down the notes of the sounds I gathered.
That was how I composed. A method that only I could employ, requiring no instruments of any kind.
But the music on the score stopped halfway. The notes were distorted and broken—because of the noise that had intruded. Because of the disruption, the notes I had gathered had died aborning.
The room I was in was soundproofed from the ceiling to the floor. Not, however, to keep sounds from escaping. I lived in a deserted ghost town. There were no inhabited houses near mine.
The purpose of my soundproofing was to keep any sound from getting in.
It was all for the sake of composing without interruption.
However, the insulation could only dampen sound, not erase it completely.
Just as in this case, outside noise could break into this room—the womb of music—and cause pollution.
As soon as that pollution scattered my visualization, it was all over. The notes around me would fly away and leave the composition dead.
I had been so close...
Seized by anger, I threw open the door and headed upstairs to the living room on the ground floor.
Upon my arrival, I found my helper, Mei, asleep leaned over the table. On the floor was a tea cup. I didn't know whether the sound I had heard just now was the banging of her head against the table or her knocking the tea cup to the floor, but the thought that such a trivial thing had just killed my sounds was just unbearable.
Normally, such soft noises wouldn't be heard in that soundproofed room, but my ears are so sensitive that they pick up even such tiny sounds. And that's why I would always caution Mei to avoid making any noise.
"Hey!" I roared.
Mei's eyes flicked open.
As she recognized me with her frowsy eyes, she quickly sat up and asked,
"Have you already completed your work?"
"You ruined it."
Mei noticed the tea cup she had accidentally dropped on the floor and its spilled contents. She paled.
Probably realizing what she had done, she hung her head in shame.
"I'm in a bad mood. I'm going out for a while."
Leaving her to her own devices, I left the house.
My name is Eiji Kadokura. I'm 32 years old. I compose music. I have composed a considerable number of pieces so far and pride myself on being fairly popular and well-known.
My usual genre is soothing musicfor which I commonly accept assignments. But my most famous composition is most likely a classical piece I had written for a certain renowned violinist, which became a million-seller in spite of its genre, thanks to the recent classical music boom.
Today, I had also been working on a music piece for an assignment that was due in a week. Well, I had been until I was disturbed by my helper.
Once a piece of music has been dispersed, it is forever lost to me.
While traces of it remain in my head, it feels like a cheap copy if I finish the song with those remnants.
It resembles the feeling when the toy bricks you piled up in play start to shake, and even though you manage to regain balance, your tower eventually falls apart after a few more bricks are added.
Or maybe it's also similar to sewing a garment: your thread runs out and you have to tie in a different one—a knot remains and makes the garment look shabby.
Either way, a ruined piece of music can't be mended.
I couldn't stand a patched-together song.
I had to start all over again.
Even though there was not much time left before the deadline.
I got in my car and drove to a café I frequented.
Located in a calm basement, it was usually a much-appreciated haven of tranquility for me. But on that day of all days, I found the café unable to soothe me.
A group of ten-odd tourists or the like had gathered there. Their mere presence was enough to bother me, but on top of that, they seemed to trea
