Fine snow drifted down, and a crisp flute sang out.
On the stage, a water sleeve suddenly swept through the air. Step by step, every gesture and movement flowed with effortless grace.
We are the masters of the stage, the dazzling beauty upon which the world gazes, perfect yet hollow vessels of flesh.
Every frown and smile, every playful moment and every burst of laughter, every sorrow and joy.
Lost in a whirlpool of power and desire, puppets.
They long to play with the world, only to be played by it.
Who is this "I"?
When you have time, you should write Cinnabar Hate quickly.
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