It's a dangerous whisper I think only writing can make me a little bit happier. When clouds outside accumulate in a unidentified way, and attempt to conceal the coming doom and fear beneath the window, but there exists void, which is far bleaker beyond the imagined, for example the void of consciousness, emotion and some others. They must be colourful and full of contemplation. Ah, so let us give a concession to those void, or I can try to delete myself in a invisible way, with lissome paces. I cannot achieve any power from my depression.And, I hear the howl of death, something loud, but muted in other's ears. The moon has laid beneath the clouds, something must happen, and nothing will change.