Until The Bitter End, The Emptiness Inside

Thinking About Spaghetti That Boils Eternally But Is Never Done Is A Sad, Sad Thing.

Silence. How Long It Lasted, I Couldn't Tell. It Might Have Been Five Seconds, It Might Have Been A Minute. Time Wasn't Fixed. It Wavered, Stretched, Shrank. Or Was It Me That Wavered, Stretched, And Shrank In The Silence? I Was Warped In The Folds Of Time, Like A Reflection In A Fun House Mirror.

Ever Since That Happened To Me, I Haven't Been Able To Give Myself To Anyone In This World.

Sometimes Fate Is Like A Small Sandstorm That Keeps Changing Directions. You Change Direction But The Sandstorm Chases You. You Turn Again, But The Storm Adjusts.

It Is Hard To Be An Individual In Japan.