But tomorrow I'll be a different person, never again the person I was. Not that anyone will notice after I'm back in Japan. On the outside nothing will be different. But something inside has burned up and vanished. Blood has been shed, and something inside me is gone. Head down, without a word, that makes its exit. The door opens; the door shuts. The light goes out. This is the last day for the person I am right now. The very last twilight. When dawn comes, the person I am won't be here anymore. Someone else will occupy this body.
The narrator reflects on a profound transformation that will occur within themselves, even if it goes unnoticed by the outside world. They anticipate returning to Japan as a changed individual, with an internal shift that leaves a sense of emptiness from what has been lost. The metaphor of something burning up emphasizes the deep impact of this change, marking it as a significant turning point in their identity.
This moment serves as a poignant farewell to their current self as they acknowledge that the dawning of a new day will bring forth a different persona. The imagery of the final twilight suggests a moment of introspection and sorrow, underlining the weight of the departure from their former identity. As the door metaphorically closes behind them, they grapple with the reality that the essence of who they are will no longer exist, leaving room for someone new to take their place.
