The whisper that dissolves into the bustling crowd
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makes the memories scattered underfoot blur together.
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The blazing of the street where I walk about lost (glaring one way)
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illuminates me as coldly as though it freezes.
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The cold times make dreams fall like rain and slip through my hands.
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When I woke up from the countless wishes, you are reflected in a shimmering illusion --
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the silhouette whose faint smile leads me along.
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Even if the gentleness that tells about only what makes anxiety flow
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had fulfilled eternity, I still don't want tomorrow.
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The words that I have to give to you are (it's talk to myself)
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falling into an everyday routine, even without shadows.
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With a trembling finger, I gather up the dreams; without even breathing on them, they're crumbling.
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Even the certain things are too unreliable; if I believe in something, can I be with you again?
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It's whitely vanishing, the silhouette of that day.
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Looking up at that palely-dyed season (Life Winter Dream)
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I, who stopped to stand still, am swept away.
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The wind blows it out, makes it be left behind; even the yearning is growing numb from the cold in my heart.
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The cold times drift about in dreams, but are caught and held in your hands.
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When I woke up from the countless wishes, you are reflected in a shimmering illusion --
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the silhouette whose faint smile leads me along.
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