I am a third-year middler schooler, I don’t need any timesheets.
Throw away others before they throw away you:
Don’t need this, or this, or this, or this.
The dream I’ve dreamed often at the music bars replicates well upon this kitchen mat.
Everything up to now is whatever, time for my playing nice to end.

April the sixth is the day the pupa flies.

No I can’t graduate and I’m all bottled up / with fresh feelings and growing pains.
What do I want is so unclear to me / But surely I’m a respectable sort.
On an electric guitar I play an open G. In a six tatami room, an open G.
What is Japanese rock like, again? That stuff sung by that girl on the TV?
Oh please teach me, Heisei baby.
Oh please teach me, college music.
Don’t hold your breath, wait here for me.
Where I can reach out and touch you, wait here for me.
“Japanese rock,” is like, ah, man…

April the sixth is the day the pupa flies.

Stuck in a dream where I never wake up / The pupa grows to become butterfly.
On April the sixth’s morn / Pupa grows wings and flies.
The dream shimmers in and out and out more / O pupa, goodbye to you.
On April the sixth’s morn / I become a butterfly.