Essay,Poem,and Words

It is presumptuous and haughty to do something thinking it is good for the stranger. The reason for yourself is to be poor in the blessing.

I want to live somewhere. The hand of key stroke stops by chance. It is every day in the tool which dyes familiar and tooled. It wants to throw away such empty every day, and run in hills and fields.

It has the picture album. I want to walk on the beach somewhere. I want to walk in strange land. Can you meet the person who has not seen yet?

Do you hear bird's voice? Can insect's sound be caught? Do you see brute's living? Is sunlight dazzled? Do you sweat?

I want to be stricken to rain. I want to wander in the lightning of which grows dim. I want to smell the perfume of the bargain. I want to sleep in purple.

I want to talk until the mouth dries. I want to hit it until the arm is tired. I want to walk until the foot becomes a stick. Where do you go? Where did you come?

Small dog picked up. Having been warmed is not you. It is me.

I want to live somewhere. Having been thrown away is me. It was me who struck key silently. The cooling fan is about to be called a faint groan sound, and a boast civilization. (1998. 7.27)