If it were a life left in a cardboard box
Would it have no value?
Whirling at a bus stop
A bystanding swarm

The mistakes in our writing are inevitable
But don't we spit more out than that?
Where that will lead us, even today
Nobody knows

Spilled out of my mother's hands
This small life
Has no greater value than the rear seats

With a life capable of becoming anything
There is nothing I can save
With such skillful fingertips
There is nothing I can save
Nor can we all

This is a finite and foolish world
With my brush on the paper
The ink I splattered here
Is so terribly fitting, isn't it?

If i were asked if I wanted to die
I am not so lonely that I want to die
But if I were asked if I wanted to live
I have nothing to say
What is the face I make for this emptiness?
The first words I wrote here were
"There was no reason I was born."

If I read an unforeseeable novel
Would there be an inescapable world?
Every time I look back, the ground collapses behind me
Where would we head to, starting tomorrow?
Where would we?

Ah!

Unknown, unknown
"Who am I?" "Who are you?"
Unknown, unknown
Erasing and scribbling, crumpling and throwing out
Unknown, unknown
I'm still unable to write myself
Was there no reason that I was born?
Was there no reason that I was born?
There was no reason that I was born

Though there's nothing that's ceaseless
Though there's nothing that I can save
Though there's no meaning to this life
Though there's no kind of tomorrow
I have to go
Even if I were walking towards death
I have to write
Though there is clearly no blank space left
I have to know
Of tomorrow, of this ceaseless darkness
I have to live, I have to live
I have to live on