fragmented images and street corners that shouldn't matter all that much

Streets of a red tea colour... It was the same route, the lonely walk northward from Takamiya Station back to the dorm. The headlights of cars like blurry and tearful eyes. They brush across my body. It was always November. It was always night. Like how I found myself that night sitting outside a very big music box, attacked by a butterfly. But there was nothing comical about it. Nothing comical at all.

The same route. There was a faint sadness that clouded me during these many walks back to the dorm. But at the time I hadn't even the capacity to detect it and call it 'a faint sadness'. I was thinking a lot about myself and about Yuki but more about myself as I marveled the many neon billboards along the way while delighting in a glimpse of my own reflection off the mirror facade of the pachinko parlour.

Piano fades out. Here I am again. Down the curtains and everything is the red tea colour again.

rainy blue

anata no maboroshi kesu yo ni
watashi mo kyo mo sotto ame...

The picture I get begins with the phone booth. Yes. The phone booth. I think he does mention phone booth in the song. At an intersection. A white car passes by and he says to himself, it might be her. But what is he to do about it? What is there to do about it than to wander around in the rain? And what good is it to have her watch him drenched in rain from behind the cozy of her curtains? The cozy of her curtains... How did I ever arrive at that?

a christmas card for a distant love

Sometimes I think about the cars that pass by my window as I'm typing. Tonight I sent a merry christmas email to a distant love. May be just the fact that I haven't much to say other than merry christmas shows that we are distant.

The stack of christmas cards on my desk have not been sent. There are all blue. The print on the card is a painting done in a background blue colour. In the centre of the picture are two ducks. The moon is full. The temperature is cold but the animals are warm.

When I have this feeling about wanting to create, to write something, naturally I turn to writing random sentences, sometimes very very random. Then I go back to chipping away at the short story that I'm working on. I find it difficult to get excited about poetry.

how i try to make sadness beautiful and laugh

A coach gets fired. The bus stops coming after 7. A thick down jacket when it's 8 degrees outside. I'm here because I want to be here. I write here because I want to write here. Sadness. The stories I'm reading nowadays. While having dinner in my kitchen table two thoughts, two thick thoughts came to me: That my father will not live long; and that all the while I was with Yukie I was a very very weak person. As usual, arising from these thoughts are thoughts about moving to Vancouver, thoughts about having my own place so I can play the role of myself, and all the while I'm saying this, I feel so superficial it's not funny. Like this, I move a step forward, pull myself a step back.

The blue lights across the street look warm. They hover. They dangle along the railing that leads up the steps to the pedestal. Even the top is decorated with lights. No bus stops over there anymore. The next bus comes very early in the morning, so early that, I suppose, a bus will pass by my house while I'm still in bed.

a day's close...

The key is to not become so tired that when I bring myself here I feel like there's something cottony expanding in my head. I can barely keep my eyes open. But still I insist to say a little something, so I may go to sleep a little more easily. But judging by the puffiness of my eyes, I shall have no problem sleeping tonight. But as for waking up...

here now

and so I'm here now and when I was on the subway I thought about the way I say things so streamofconsciously there is lacking substance and I don't want to appear flat if I know what I mean.

my new house is quite peachy. my new room spacious. too much space makes the capricious soul difficult to contain.