Yeah, the usual phrases go into the drawer.
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Above all, I try shouting with all my might.
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Squinting my eyes to the depths of the mirror.
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I pass through the zigzag path, and even the shadow I happen to meet.
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I want you to outline it, as if drawing on a foggy window.
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An illusion that becomes clear or shrinks in words.
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Stepping on the sunbeam that streamed in, the colors leaped.
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I end up liking it a little more.
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Before the moment is hidden away.
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We cast surprising magic on each other.
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Not knowing, I want to say, "We don't know, do we?"
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The scent I found after the wind touched it.
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Yeah, emptiness is written in white letters.
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Above all, I try to simply write it down.
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I'm squinting my eyes to the depths of the mirror.
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It would be nice if someday I could think the same.
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The color of the sunbeam that streamed in, too.
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The color of the plain, unadorned city, too.
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As it grows, it becomes new again.
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So that the edge of the umbrella can touch.
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We pile up irregular rings on top of each other.
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I want to anticipate a continuation that's casual yet strange.
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The scent I found after the wind touched it.
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