From the lunch a packed, the broth dropped off, the Rising Sun Flag you can see.
Flying like dancing, in the room where the sunshine of the sunset are coming, a butterfly made from my hands.
To a tongue from another, a suspension bridge is bending, of which made from saliva.
Itumade, the monster which crying to appeal how long a corpse is left here, so now at its feet, a few corpses are there.
From your back, putting my chin on your clavicle, of what view I can see. Or, from your back, putting my chin on your clavicle, I wonder how you can feel.