In a farsighted room, on a normal night of mourning, the fragrances of three Spirits – of sorrow, burning, and disbelief appeared before me. And ever since that moment I’ve been laying flowers at your doorstep, hoping you’ll remember the beat. I see phony groupies lazing round in dark of darks and awful deafness, while I dance, dance, and dance to its serious suggestions. I’ve been paving our channel with astonishment and sleep. I’ve been playacting at best, giving the whole World a face of bittersweet neglect, but in the place where wild rabbits build wild nests, I’m secretly hoping you’ll hear my labored roar. And then, you’ll dance, dance, and dance to the location of my tempered glass coffin. You’ll smash through the mug, destroying the Gothic breath that seizes expansion.
Wraithlike on the surface, it’s innate to chase after a whacked out rhythm. It is for me. That I summon various poets of yore to our old abandoned palace is inborn – it is for me. I’ve been laying flowers at the castle, at the doorstep, at the passageway. Should you choose to snub the meridian, I won’t cease to be a conduit for the fluffy pink, but now, how can you remain deaf to the rhythm, to this wild ghostlike beat? I shall not rest until I build a nest inside your fluffy wing. I shall do nothing but focus on your offbeat rhythm, on your wild ghostlike beat… and maybe… you’ll hear me.