You lie silent there before me. Your tears: they mean nothing to me. The wind howling at the window, the love you never gave... I give to you.
You really don't deserve it, but now, there's nothing you can do. So sleep in your only memory of me, my dearest mother.
Here's a lullaby to close your eyes. It was always you that I despised. I don't feel enough for you to cry -- oh well. Here's a lullaby to close your eyes: good-bye.
So insiginificant, sleeping dormant deep inside of me. Are you hiding away, lost under the sewers, Maybe flying high in the clouds? Perhaps you're happy without me.
So many seeds have been sewn in the field, and who could sprout up so blessedly? If I had died, I would never have been sad at all. You will not hear me say I'm sorry. Where is the light? Wonder if it's weeping somewhere...
Here's a lullaby to close your eyes. It was always you that I despised. I don't feel enough for you to cry -- oh well. Here's a lullaby to close your eyes: good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.
Akira Yamaoka, Mary Elizabeth McGlynn, "Room of Angel"
Shall he come or go? He ponders; -- all resolve from him is taken; on the beaten path he wanders, groping on as if forsaken. Deeper still himself he loses, everything his sight abuses, both himself & others hating, taking breath -- and suffocating, without life -- yet scarcely dying, not despairing -- not relying. Rolling on without remission: loathsome ought & sad permission, now deliverance, now vexation, semi-sleep -- poor recreation, nail him to his place & wear him, and at last for Hell prepare him.