Living Room (from Kenshi Yonezu's diary)
After a spontaneous get-together comes to a close, I open the door to go home, and the morning sunlight and awkwardly cool air pierce the back of my nose. As I stumble through the town, whose rules clearly differ from the calm midnight air of the bar, I go home to get away from the chaotic BGM. I start to miss the scorching warmth of summer, and while listening to a summery song, I start considering all kinds of plans for the next 6 months. Before long, I come up against the words someone once told me - "You're abnormally bad at making plans" - and wanting to fix that this time, I think about it in spite of myself, like a mechanic working on a prototype mobile suit. I want to do fun stuff.
When I turned on the light in the living room, it made a loud snapping sound, let out a final quick flash, then never lit up again. I've come to believe that this is the kind of thing that happens when something dies. All the more since I've been examining human death ever since the end of last year (Lemon turned out to be a good song). As life goes on, obviously everyone grows old and degrades, so as you pass one marker after another in front of you, you notice the various deaths lurking around you. The fact it can't just be like "a new character has appeared" is why living is so interesting, but humans are cute and try to forget obvious things like that. I wonder if they're doing okay now in some place I don't know? By tracing outlines in empty space of things that have lost their form or can no longer be seen, we try to bring them up and take them back. Ultimately, I feel like that's about the same place where you find my reasons for making music.
The other day, I found a nice wristwatch, so I impulsively bought it, and was quite fond of it, but I think I lost it. I think I'll have completely forgotten about that after a year, so I'm writing it down here.