At before dawn, my draining hot water from noodles, such uneasy feeling I've never had.
On clipping my toenails, as to stay there any longer, to bend over.
Of Japanese mustard spinach, as if it's not a matter of life and death, to cut it up into pieces.
A taxi, to running after, and children tumbling down.
From the edge of the moon, Yoshio folds origami, a sailboat is made.