The day I want to sing nonstop under the beautiful sun,

That’s the day I catch a cold and my vocal chords shut down for maintenance.

Le dernier petit déjeuner

Someday, all those stupid fights for strawberries will be missed.

Amid the long-expected peace, there will be a certain emptiness added to a bowl full of soggy cereal.


Everyone will suffer.

Or—I have a better idea:
You guys, get together for some drinks and laugh at the tears you both shed.

You tell him how things seemed so fine as we got warm with a big cup of pumpkin coffee. Too bad it was seasonal, and then we started getting french vanilla. It was good, but not that good. Nothing beat pumpkin coffee, right?
And you, you tell him about the long walk under the sun on my day off. The chocolate bread was awesome, and the streets seemed pretty quiet then. It was a wonderful morning.

Okay, now you go ahead and tell him about the face I made whenever I ate Yukimi Daifuku, or unagi, or plain old kare raisu.
Can you reply with our trips to that restaurant downtown where we ate beans? How about our breakfasts in the bakery?

The chef in that restaurant told you what happened to rice at such a high altitude, and how difficult it was to get good fish here.
Oh, but that same chef bowed at you and gave us free sushi!

Why don’t you just leave me once and for all?
Neither of you deserves to spend so much idle time thinking of this glum soul. Neither of you deserves to make plans when the future is a step into the void.

I’ll make it easier on you guys and walk away.
Give away your beautiful gazes to prettier smiles.
Give away your hearts of gold and lapis lazuli to hands which don’t turn them into dirty dust.
Get together and make a collage out of this mess.


Mais où es-tu?
Est-ce que tu te souviens de moi, des voyages, des aventures, de tout ce temps…?
As-tu changé? Je pense que tu n’es pas le même homme que j’avais connu… Mais, dis moi la verité: qui es-tu maintenant?

Je suis heureuse ici, j’ai vu beaucoup de choses que je n’avais jamais vu. Je tiens une main tendre, je regarde des yeux doux. Mon Français est lamentable, mais… qui va comprendre ce que j’écris? Toi? Qui? J’écris pour personne. Tu es un souvenir d’un long voyage, et possiblement je ne vais plus te voir.

Et bien… Où es-tu?
Est-ce que tu te souviens de moi?
Qui sommes-nous maintenant?

Et pourquoi je dois écrire en cette langue quand je veux pleurer?
Et pourquoi je veux pleurer?