The sun sets in the west, and the blood blooms into a painting.
The night crow whispered a broken funeral song, and the blood was diluted with tears.
The liquid seeped into the heavy silence of the soil, and the warmth drained from my fingertips little by little.
I murmured quietly, as if at some moment, you whispered back.
I asked again, but you didn't answer.
I'm left alone to talk to myself.
It was an emptiness that no candy could satisfy, like a missing heart, a dull pain that once had something but was taken away, and lost again.
There is no substitute.
Intention: After watching Fumino, I really felt sorry for Osamu Dazai. Such a man who is extremely gentle should also be treated with extreme gentleness.