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It's shopping district in the sky is congested, and its borders consolidated with pastel.
Flutter oscillation, driving force, and theories of aestheticism
are being misused legally by the wonderlanders. Even the nuns' prayers are turning into drugs,
while laughter of gamblers with rolls of money can be heard everywhere.
Packs of stray dogs are walking a parade of triumphant return,
with their barking voices scattering the applauding hands of the audience.
Everything is covered with lies, everyone is deceiving everyone,
emotions are gained and lost, and nothing can be spared.
People's hearts are being targeted by rubber band guns.
Telling the gangsta-wannabes about the world,
you attach serial numbers to them and gamble gamble!
People are born and raised on these perfectly level streets,
so they have cast away their ordinary life.
Residential buildings are also used as shipyards, covered with blimps' crash remains.
In this nation of entertainment, even the official language has become fuzzy.
Here's a merry-go-round capable of centrifugation, and there's a Ferris wheel in the corner of a shrine.
At the decayed markets are clusters of slum dwellers.
The intoxicated lovey-dovey couples present such an unsightly stereo image,
and who is that girl who just gave me a middle finger?!
"Wait, honey, darling!" This kind of mediocre welcome has gotten
really tiring.
To the part-time movie stars, who have lost their cheers from the audience,
you have sold your pride, and indulged in psychedelic trips.
Staring up at steel towers that have electric lines growing out of them,
you frolic in the shady back valleys.
you frolic in the shady back valleys.
Within the flowing waves and waves of people,
a mask dealer is on his stomach and soliciting for
the baby held in your arms, who, usually a source of distress,
has stopped crying at the chime of the bell.
It's a shallow song
about the shallow you.
On a hot and humid night, you cry to the rock star in your mixed living quarter;
filled with listlessness before the war, you attempt love suicide for a third time.
Smile evasively at the rows of soldiers,
and take off your tengu mask already.
Telling the gangsta-wannabes about the world,
you attach serial numbers to them and gamble gamble!
Bidding goodbye to this pitch black street,
I guess, uh, see you tomorrow then.