Tonight I needed to start on a quote (Interpol, Memory Serves). Memory serves me, and I’ll wait to find if it serves you too.

I don’t know how my soul is served when I drench it back with the Sea of Japan, my own see of Japan, that is to say a cover. A crossover. A mix of filling music, and quenching readings. Quenching livings.

My stay was a whole lack of words.

Now I’m listening to its echo, glistening echo. And as I somehow feel it has come to a halt, I remember again, buckling up all these wineful tears. A bucketful of these.

Music serves me: It triggers a reaction in my soul, the same as I used to have. A reaction in my soul, the same as I used to. Have. An unused word.

A little more wine. A little more food. All the same, you fool. Me fool.

The bucket is not full to the rim yet. Try it on, cry a little faster, cry a little further, down to a place where there’s nowhere to stay.

How can a music crave its way so hard to my heart? How can I love so deep that a whole country in me shakes? How can sounds can move my body to a place it doesn’t belong to at all? How… can you love this shakiness in me?

How can I still be chasing my damage at the same tunes?

Maybe because it raised me.