[A]ll philosophers must surrender to the poet when they arrive at the end of their intellectual exploration. Only the universe that the poet intuits … - 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.

ah these terrifying shades on earth
in this forest of sensuous illusion
I gaze at the shadow of melancholy that gradually spread
and my heart flapping its wings
resembles the ugly look of a bird at death
ah this sensation of unbearable sensual sex
ever so terrifyingly melancholy.

Thus I make poetry. Like the moths that swarm around a lantern, deceived by the phantom of certain flowery mysterious sentiments, trying to touch the essence of invisible reality, I vainly flap, flap my wings as fragile as sponge cake. I am a pitiable fantasizing child, the sad fate of a moth.