Music’s a wood you walk through.

We are only what we know, and I wished to be so much more than I was, sorely.

Your turn has come to sift through the dreck of humanity for rare specks of originality

There are so many cities in every single city.

Birdsong foamed in the hour-before-dawn garden.

If only,’ Shiroyama dreams, ‘human beings were not masks behind masks behind masks. If only this world was a clean board of lines and intersections. If only time was a sequence of considered moves and not a chaos of slippages and blunders.

Leaves turned to soil beneath my feet. Thus it is, trees eat themselves.