What comes of this, tell me! You wake me in the deep of night and dissolve into air!
My hours have no identity of their own anyway, they scatter here and there, or wherever you happen to be. They remain mine, but... but where am I left in all this!
I hum songs, but they are not songs! I read poems, but the poems are not really poems! I watch the moon, but the moon is not quite the moon! Everything in me drowns in thought, but are these thoughts merely thoughts?
Ask that southern window frame— it knows, the one who wraps around it is not me—it is you, incarnate!
All this time I never sank into such reverie... Who has ever shattered me so completely, and when! When I lay scattered in fragments, forgotten, no one ever worked such kintsugi magic before, joining me with gold!
Everyone has their own distinct existence, yet... why does everything today feel like you, you, you?