If you died today, as in the next 30 minutes, how long would it take for the wider functioning society to notice? An hour, a day or two, a week... longer even... Long enough for your spirit to be absorbed into the wallpaper in your bedroom or diffuse into the fibers of the carpet under your bed—roving like an air bubble trapped below the skin like a migrating cyst of lonely contrition. Just another missing person, only now permanently, consigned by fate to exile in the vestibule entresol of the abyss, still able to view the plane you sweat, and bled, and cried in all those years from the recesses of tenebrous hovels and through the veil of still night as it pools, suffusing spaces the sun has quit, but unable to make one's presence known or affect the events that transpire before you. Very much like life, a pale shade, an outline with a deep pitted center several yards deep, absence in essence, imposed now rather than elected. Had you known that the delineation between existence and expiration was so subtle, would that have made a difference? Maybe you'd simply have made more noise while you had the chance. Been more willing to be mistaken for a yanari during your short career as a human specimen. Pipped up, even if it meant getting pushed out as a nuisance. Maybe you would have cut an album like 行方不明者リスト. A wire-haired, skittish sonic-beast thriving in the underbrush of neglect and imbalance of the humors- a whisper in an empty house, a din of supple footsteps racing down the hall blinded by dusk and cobwebs, the echo of an airless sigh- panicked, maze-bolting chords, barely setting soul to soil before propelling into the next phase of a nimble rebound, pruning the tips of its fingers to write scarlet poetry on the interior vessels of a condemned cadaver. Could you find it in you to make such a statement? Or maybe you'd be even braver... venturing into the wilderness of the world, baring your heart to the one you were meant to love, and project the light of your union into the sky like a blazing-hot saber, fresh from the forge, to cleave the threat of an incoming extinction-inducing meteor into a manageable grist of marbles... Or maybe you'd remain the same breed of inert, domestic effigy you've always been- heart too big, eyes too wide, mind too busy, mouth too small. Another victim of intoxicating delusions and the torpor of passivity, lulled by stories, projections, and fear into a cradle of self-expulsion. セカイ系症候群末期患者へ was made for you, but I doubt it will make a difference in the end. Prove me wrong.
