"From me, the assailant. To you, the victim."

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The season of anxiety, the season of spring comes like a phantom killer.

The bunny that tells lies find it's way.

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The voices of backstabbers still stick to me.

Someday maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe,

maybe the voice will be heard straight to my heart.

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Right, left, front, and back, it overflows with despair and pain.

They say this anger, this emotion, and this passion is all a lie.

I'm not even trying to justify myself.

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Everyone wants to reach out their hand and grab happiness.

But they just end up becoming the monster that lies deep in darkness.

The end has already come to life.

It will take form at zero and will crawl back into the uterus and rot.

Every time this happens, your faces crumble.

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I’ve stared at the strong shining moon long enough to be bored.

Can’t even turn myself into a werewolf, but just enough to become crazy by the darkness.

I want to suck the neck. The emptiness of the remains.

I won’t let you sleep.

At the age where you just want attention...tonight, I might go crazy for you.

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I will live with my work. I scream with this body of flesh that separates heaven and hell.

I carve the sins. What will be the proof of my existence if it disappears with the wind?

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