Your fruit has ripened.

Yet, you haven't matured enough to pick the fruits.

So, you wipe away your tears.

Enduring the pain, you return to loneliness once again.

Let loneliness ripen into a more abundant and beautiful self.

You were once an artist.

Now you have become a work of art.

The midnight bell tolls twelve times.

Your dance is for the coming one.

Master! Master!

Who isn't a master?

A farce, a farce.

Even the pigeons say, "The time has come, the time has come!"

What you pursued, it wasn't happiness, but a career?

Hahaha, career or happiness?

Your secrets, true or false, are just a fleeting dream.

Listen, you have to listen.

I will gently sigh for you to hear.