Chapter Seven of the Night

And, by the way, look at the circular plaza ahead

Going home is nothing but sorrow

A smooth, round badge, slightly cool

No one makes a sound; the north I long for

Beneath the moonlight of Victoria, evil writes its song

An awkward ending, hands meeting

Who wasn't there when the ideals melted away?

A clock hangs on the wall, an illusion of destruction

Contradictions lead to the alley across the street from him, striving to make the music perfect

The one controlling this unspeakable crime is just like...

I wrote a gorgeous, cruel piece of music

I'll write this kind of longing down with my own hands

The dawn's light dries the wind, carrying away a streak of sorrow

Black ink burns the incense