I loved my wife. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Her eyes twinkled blue like the sky, her cheeks were rosy pink like a cherry blossom, and her hair glowed red like a roaring fire. Everything about her was perfect. And she was mine.
Sparing the preamble, Kizumonogatari (or Wound Tale, to which it has been officially localised) opens with an elaborate, multi-page description of a gust of wind lifting the skirt of a high school girl and revealing her panties. Such are we thrust into the mindset of Koyomi Araragi, the girl’s classmate, and the narrator of the eponymous tale of wounds that we are about to explore.
I am in a box.
It is four metres wide, three metres long, and two metres high. The box has a door, a window, and a light. There is a bed to sleep on. There is a cupboard filled with clothes. There are shelves stocked with things to do. There is a computer at a desk through which I can access the world. And there is me.