Here and there, I see farmers' melancholy faces. The faces are dark, looking only at the ground. On the ground, spring, like smallpox, is ponderously… - Sakutarō Hagiwara

[T]he octopus did not die. Even after he disappeared, he still was eternally alive there. In the antiquated, empty, forgotten water tank of the aquarium. Eternally—most likely through many centuries—an animal with a certain horrible deficiency and dissatisfaction was alive, invisible to the human eye.

My personality, loneliest in the world,
is calling loudly to an unknown friend,
my obsequious strange personality,
looking shabby like a crow,
is trembling on the corner of a deserted, winter-
withered bench.

In a field where bats swarmed
I watched a pillar of crumbling flesh
it trembled lonely in the evening darkness
smelled raw like dead-man's-grass that flutters at a shadow
and was as ugly as rotting meat with throngs of maggots crawling on it.