The impractical theories on my desktop, unable to find any audience, disintegrate half-way.
My future plan, being woven with lead, is a fantasy of confrontational debates and arguments.
When I listen more closely, the story is secret talk. That kid is but a monochrome puppet.
Its owner, being kept in its heart, is a symphony of variable parameters.
Ah, attach a price tag to me.
Ah, even life itself is expectantly not moving forward. I'll round the number.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I stick my head out of the window.
How boring. I've become weary, but I don't have the courage to kill myself.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I stick a syringe into my wrist.
How boring. I've become weary, so I'm eating some cake and taking deep gasps.
Everybody is hung midair and swinging. The number of bolts and screws in their head is lacking.
My life, with two interlocked part-time jobs, is a factory of friendship.
When I raise my antenna, the story is secret talk. That kid, too, is but a monkey of mass media.
The fraudulent sales, conducted in a high-pitched voice, are the dustpans of existence.
Ah, you should come over here.
Ah, how many people are you going to kill like that? Round the number.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I press a knife against my chest.
How boring. I've become weary, but I don't have the resolve to inflict pain upon myself.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I let even my head be submerged.
How boring. I've become weary, so I'll merely keep thinking because that's all I have been doing.
Ah, if you keep crawling like a beggar,
ah, the proof will never be finished. Round the number.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I jump into a path.
How boring. I've become weary, so I start running away in the middle of my journey.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I point a gun at the temple of my forehead.
How boring. I've become weary, but I can only keep on fantasizing about suicide.
I feel like crying from my suffering, but am unable to cling to anyone,
and my voice is being ridiculed and ignored. To put it simply, I am merely a piece of junk.
Ah, it's going to rain tomorrow for sure.
By: Oshiire-P, or 椿 塩音
YOU ARE READING
