i do not intend suffering upon this body;
yet, on some occasions, i set the butterflies
on fire like one who has developed a propensity
for darkness. almost all things occupied
with breath repulse me—my art, too, is losing
its spark lately, a bonfire night plundered
by a rainstorm. so much occurs in silence—
little of joy, more of sorrow. like Dazai, life
wanders on the brink of collapse.
or tell me, what is there not to mull over?
the radio spells out pain, groans out of
abyss & delicate misfortunes of the universe.
regardless, i want to spare the bread for the
pigeons. absurd things still keep me alive—mango
trees. Spring. delightful hymns of nightingales.