Like a basement you've crawled into too deeply.
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It seems I can't turn back.
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What kind of taste is this?
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The sequence of events is too tangled.
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I don't know where to begin.
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I want you to understand me.
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What kind of taste is this?
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Pitch-black darkness is scary.
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I can't take another step.
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My palms pressed into the ground as I sat.
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It's just that my throat is dry.
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Even if there are dreams that can't come true,
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Even if there's a night that never ends.
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Let's compare the answers.
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Even something as small as that.
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Because it will become a keepsake.
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No matter what, I'm not at fault.
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I feel like saying something childish, you know.
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What kind of taste is this?
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The power to decide is in someone else's hands.
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I'm being made to fit someone else's schedule.
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It's a ridiculously well-made little box garden.
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It's ridiculous, isn't it?
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So I don't care anymore.
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It might stay as a scar.
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It might become a treasure.
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Someday, somewhere, I'll look back from time to time.
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It's just that my throat is dry.
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Even if there are dreams that won't come true.
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Even if there is a night that never ends.
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Someday, somewhere, let's check the answers.
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Even something so small will become a keepsake.
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The end point isn't here.
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