[Japanese] 眠りの端で 世界は折りたたまれ 名のない地図が 鼓動の裏に点灯する 二進の雨 頬をすべり 昨日の論理が 靴紐みたいにほどける 「誰が私を描くのか」 問いはインクになり 影に罫線を引く 見上げれば 天井は確率でできていて 観測するたび 輪郭が震える 選ぶたび 選ばれている 目の奥で 秒針が反転する 真実は選ぶたび 私を選び返す 暗闇の奥で 光はまだ匿名だ 鍵穴のない扉を 呼吸で開けるとき 名づけ前の名前が 胸で目を開く 都市のざわめきは 設計図の余白 書かれぬ線が 脚となり歩き出す 右手は法則 左手はノイズ その交差点で 心拍が拍子を決める もし世界が夢なら 夢を見る者は誰 私を観る私が 私を起こす 遠い合唱 母音だけの祈り 「いま」を引き伸ばし 刃先みたいに薄くする 時間は傾き 落ちる砂が宙で止まる 選択は羽 片方だけで空を覚えた 真実は選ぶたび 私を選び返す 零と壱の隙間で まだ熱い未来 鍵穴のない扉を 呼吸で開けるとき 名づけ前の名前が 私を呼びに来る 足跡は消え 脈拍だけが道になる [English] At the edge of sleep, the world folds in, and a nameless map lights up behind my heartbeat. Binary rain slides down my cheek; yesterday’s logic loosens like a shoelace. “Who is drawing me?”— the question turns to ink and rules the shadow with lines. I look up: the ceiling is made of probability, and every time I observe, the outline trembles. Each time I choose, I am being chosen. Deep in my eyes, the second hand reverses. Truth, when I choose you, you choose me back. In the far dark, the light is still anonymous. When I open the door without a keyhole—only with breath, the name before naming opens its eyes in my chest. City noise is the margin of a blueprint; unwritten lines grow legs and start to walk. Law in my right hand, noise in my left— at their crossing, my heartbeat sets the meter. If the world is a dream, then who is the dreamer? The me who watches me is the one who wakes me. A distant choir, a prayer made only of vowels, stretching “now” until it thins like a blade’s edge. Time tilts; falling sand hangs still in the air. Choice is a feather that learned the sky with one wing. Truth, when I choose you, you choose me back. Between zero and one, a future still warm. When I open the door without a keyhole—only with breath, the name before naming comes calling for me. Footprints fade; only the pulse becomes the road.
