幸江と七原〜毒薬
From head to toe, the diseased bud unfolds its anticipated variation. The anchored routine of daily labor produces the illusion of a summer nightmare, but the distortion in my ears, which cannot be interrupted, reminds me of time’s dislocation.
Night. A North American night. A night mid-crossing.
Heatstroke is the syndrome of sleep deprivation, self-deprecation, powerlessness, and resentment. Friday’s heatstroke no longer needs a diagnosis; the ritual goes on, step by step carving out the wasteland of the eardrum.
I’m sorry. Even though I can already see the traces of your rigor mortis bleeding through from the back of the bedsheet, I still want to extend today’s farewell.
I am certain that the border of madness lies at the junction of the esophagus and the stomach.
包まれた街
After the meal ends, the sky descends at the speed of a pendulum. It seems to coax me into a nap with an overexposed filter, beaming.
The Agrigento landscape on the curtains: a prison? Modernism? The concealment before the show? A drowsiness surfaces: prolonged, comfortable, cluttered. A synonym for the bloated quotidian, like that half-eaten burger, swollen, its innards spilled, slovenly and flavorless. The repetition of food equivalent to routine. The unplanned plan, antonym of difference.
The planned nap, swept up in the smell of disinfectant, sinks into the vortex of sewage.
The earliest doctrine of life.
人生の针、声雫
Water drops, imitation rain, me.
The mugwort fields of a year ago and the reddish-purple uniforms. Morning dew sways; a visual, not tactile, medium. Pothos hangs down, extending a fingertip. From beneath its newly grown vein I see, buried in the cavity of a missing organ, my grievances toward you.
Spinning, books, black tea, coffee calibrated to have no flavor. Falling, notes, racing thoughts, the vertigo of a conversation that wandered into the wrong classroom. Through something almost transparent blue, what else can I see in your overflowing lens?
Somewhere above the confession, an echo strums, lost in itself. I stare at the columns atop the library, listening to the minor key that heralds dusk. Leaves, like soft counterfeits that could never become blades, drift into the web of weeds before me, with the helpless and gentle poise of a fallen angel wanting to melt into the furnishings of the earth. The obscure spirals of the trunk, the layered lines and planes of the branches and leaves; I feel something is always fastening a burden to my legs.
The needle of life, misaligned in the turntable…
Indigo Blue Garden、マジカルスーイトケーキ（Matra magic remix）
The flower bares its cruel serration, dismantling the air around it. How much data does a single flower contain? Judging from the rain that accidentally stumbled into the floral trap, its lifespan has been rewritten by the shape of the funnel. Would it say the cloud’s refrain is too merciless? But this song, in the end, concludes with a feast. If you were to ask the dewdrop, its response would follow the format of vintage moonlight. It looks up, sees the rain descending serenely, sees the night collapse all at once. Before the arc of the flower slides it into the cracked ground, it will probably be very happy, enviably so. The flower discards the parts of its body it no longer needs, yet still makes all the fallen leaves pale in comparison, or floats in water, stirring scale-like ripples. It really can make the pool look as though it’s been blended into sweet tea. This flower is terrifyingly beautiful, I think, like dancing through the night until death, like swallowed prayers and the perpetually withering tail end of this day.
Gorilla Anthem、Water boarding - Noah’s Ark
I love the feeling of holding water in my hands. When an irregular little puddle forms in my palm, the skin of my hand is like a watercolor membrane, ink bleeding, soft and clear. I am being baptized. A beam of light strikes the center of the puddle, and God receives me with his twelve o’clock face. He appears by chance, just an instant: he stands on the trembling surface of the water, complexion bright, gaze resolute, then vanishes abruptly, like a lightbulb flickering without warning. At the same time the puddle fractures from the center. My hands part, water falls from the edges of my palms, and after it drains away, all that remains in my hands is sharpened reality, and the lingering lightbulb trace of the water, piercing my heart.
Hedgehog’s Dilemma、人マニア、涙
The wound the cabinet corner gave me, the spherical laceration on my heel, has already lost the stinging pain it produced when rubbed. It has left behind a self-healing crater: a ring-shaped ridge of clotted black blood, the epidermis newly formed, forcibly covering over the bodily penetration that came before. I imagine it as a temporary blemish in the cellular star cluster, a grand homeostatic carnival, using the corpses of already-dead blood cells as a public display, while simultaneously carrying out a sweeping renovation of the dermal layers.
As a juxtaposition of historical conflict imagery and the flow of difference, it presents my certified qualification as myself, narrating my own durée. The blood has congealed into a disc, and the disc gazes at the outside world, like a bidirectional act of dissolution waged with sight as its weapon. First it watches, in an open posture, how I treat it; then it will gradually fade with time, until eventually I sense its latent gaze: a transcendent sensation of suspension, accompanied by a feeling of unfamiliarity toward newly acquired bodily tissue.
It dissolves itself into my body, permeating the interior that even I cannot know, wandering in metaphysical space. Who knows its endpoint? Perhaps when I want to see it again, I’ll need to peer into a mirror, open the thoracic cavity, and find, in the gaps between my ribs, the counsel it left behind.
罠、孤立恐怖症、断面、アンダーグラウンド、渦、坐困愁城
Cold air mixed with some already-blended light liquor: a cocktail of memory. I breathe and reflect on how my habit of reflection and my childhood education are strung together by a loosened thread. I discover that the reflections of the past, those handwritten or printed documents titled with conspicuous bold-faced “Reflection” in black, have come to exist as coffins of thought: on the rotting wooden stage erected by pedantic language and the posture of collapse, I perform my act of contrition. That was the only place in elementary school where I outwitted the teacher: like finding a master key, these crumbling self-criticisms could be used any number of times to return, unopened, whatever guilt the teacher had thrown my way. Did I succeed? I don’t think so. I crushed the seedling of reflection myself. I can no longer remember the love songs I liked back then, or the novels I read. It’s like film noir, something I watched and then mostly forgot, like Antoine, like Antoine running toward he didn’t know where…