“Here’s your tea,” Noboru offered from behind him, thrusting a dark-brown plastic cup near Ryuji’s cheek. Absently, Ryuji took it. He noticed Noboru’s hand trembling slightly, probably from the cold.
Still immersed in his dream, he drank down the tepid tea. It tasted bitter. Glory, as anyone knows, is bitter stuff.
– Yukio Mishima