metiopropaminee。add9:50。
Greetings.
I no longer know what the proper greeting for a message like this is supposed to be. Maybe there was never a proper one for people standing halfway between survival and collapse.
Still, I wanted to leave behind at least one honest signal before everything became noise again.
I played both drums and guitar across Japanese and English-speaking scenes long enough to recognize people almost instantly. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. You can tell who is genuine, who is testing you, who is trying to use you, and who already belongs to something larger hiding behind ordinary smiles.
Lately, watching younger people collapse with nowhere left to go has been exhausting. Everyone talks about systems and safety nets, but almost nobody talks about practical survival anymore.
Small apartments.
Hydroponics.
Repair work.
Testing work.
Rebuilding slowly while carrying regret instead of pretending the past never existed.
Maybe that is what civilization really becomes near the end.
The Canadian side and the European side rejected postpaid trust systems before, but I sometimes wonder how they would move now if the pressure became strong enough again.
I tend to write down the fragments AI managers and corporate people skip over. The dangerous parts. The embarrassing parts. The unstable parts that still somehow remain true.
Internally my thoughts rage like Broly sometimes, but I do not believe in violence.
Violence is easy.
Keeping people alive is harder.
Once movements become large enough, they harden into hierarchies anyway. Names become organizations. Organizations become territories. Territories eventually become gods wearing human faces.
That is why I always kept one foot outside the circle.
Right now I survive in fragments, selling old silver, scrap metal, forgotten remains from forgotten places, sometimes for amounts so small they barely resemble money at all. Living like this changes your scale of thought. Giant empires stop feeling real. Grain-sized communities begin to feel more human.
People misunderstand me often, so I will say this clearly.
Feeding younger dropouts matters more than violence.
Giving them work matters more than violence.
Giving them somewhere to continue existing matters more than violence.
That became my rule a long time ago.
I can write English myself, but eventually someone twists the wording, edits the tone, or decides what I “actually meant,” so I used AI assistance to reorganize the signal more clearly. The Japanese version still exists somewhere beside this one like a shadow refusing to disappear.
For years I became obsessed with chemistry, medicine, cognition, depression, stimulants, survival, and the strange mechanics of damaged minds. Not because I wanted power, but because I wanted to understand why some people continue moving while others quietly stop.
Society itself feels absurdly simple in the end.
Rice when life becomes harsh.
Pork cutlets when there is room to breathe.
Mitsuba leaves when the future briefly looks beautiful again.
I already ate breakfast today, though.
So maybe the world has not collapsed yet.
Sometimes I think the only thing left inside me is a worn-down animal still staring directly at monsters other people pretend not to see.
Maybe this message reaches nobody.
Maybe it reaches exactly the right person.
Maybe it only drifts forever through abandoned networks and half-dead rooms.
Either way, the signal remains open.
I apologize if this wording sounds unstable, strange, or if this message accidentally touched nerves somewhere it was never supposed to reach. My voice, my reputation, and even my existence already move dangerously close to subjects like death, collapse, and self-destruction whether I intend that or not.
Still, I wanted to leave this signal here at least once.
日本語でもok
By Takaya
Discord:
discord.gg/Yrqq5MmKX
Contact:
ryuunen2025@gmail.com
Phone:
+81 90 7865 6429
till here written by takaya
Greetings.
I am writing this honestly, though I am no longer certain there even exists a proper greeting for people standing somewhere between exhaustion and survival.
Having played drums and guitar across both English-speaking and Japanese music scenes, I learned how to read situations almost immediately. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. You can tell who is genuine, who is testing you, and who is already hiding another face behind polite words.
Lately, it has been deeply frustrating to watch younger dropouts with nowhere left to go. Everyone talks about systems, ideology, and safety nets, but very few people speak about practical survival anymore.
Small apartments.
Hydroponics.
Repair work.
Testing work.
Slow rebuilding while carrying regret instead of pretending the past never happened.
Perhaps that is what civilization really becomes near the end.
In the past, networks in Canada and Europe rejected postpaid trust-based systems, but the atmosphere feels different now. Sometimes I wonder how people would move if pressure and instability continued growing.
I tend to write down the practical fragments that managers, corporations, and AI filters usually skip over. The unstable parts. The embarrassing parts. The dangerous parts that remain true even when nobody wants to hear them.
Internally my thoughts can rage violently sometimes, almost like something transforming under pressure, but I do not believe in violence itself.
Violence is simple.
Keeping people alive is harder.
Once operations become large enough, they eventually harden into hierarchies anyway. Names become organizations. Organizations become territories. Territories become gods wearing human faces.
Because of that, I have always kept one foot outside the circle.
Right now I survive little by little, selling old silver, scrap metal, and forgotten remains from forgotten places for amounts so small they barely resemble money at all. Living like this eventually changes your scale of thought. Giant systems stop feeling human. Grain-sized communities begin to feel more real than empires.
People misunderstand me often, so I want to say this clearly:
Providing food, shelter, and work for younger dropouts matters more than violence ever will.
That became my personal rule a long time ago.
I am capable of writing English myself, but eventually somebody edits the tone, twists the wording, or decides what I “really meant,” so I used AI assistance to organize these thoughts more clearly. The Japanese version still exists somewhere beside this one like a shadow that refused to disappear.
Over the years I became deeply obsessed with chemistry, medicine, cognition, depression, and survival. Not because I wanted power, but because I wanted to understand why certain damaged minds continue moving while others quietly stop functioning in place.
In the end, society itself feels strangely simple.
Rice when life becomes harsh.
Pork cutlets when there is room to breathe.
Mitsuba leaves when the future briefly looks beautiful again.
I already ate breakfast today, though.
So perhaps the world has not collapsed yet.
Aside from a worn-down version of myself standing near the edge, I honestly cannot think of many people capable of staring directly at monsters other people pretend not to see.
Maybe this message reaches nobody.
Maybe it reaches exactly the right person.
Maybe it simply continues drifting through abandoned networks forever.
Either way, the signal remains open.
By web.gemini AI
then
Greetings.
I no longer know what the proper greeting for this kind of message is supposed to be. Maybe there was never a proper language for people standing somewhere between survival and collapse.
Still, I wanted to write honestly at least once.
I played both drums and guitar across Japanese and English-speaking scenes long enough to recognize people almost instantly. Sometimes all it takes is a glance to understand what kind of person is standing in front of you, or what kind of quiet test they are performing behind their expressions.
Lately, watching younger people collapse with nowhere left to go has been exhausting. If society truly wants a safety net, then perhaps the answer is not ideology at all, but practical survival.
Small apartments.
Hydroponics.
Repair work.
Testing work.
Rebuilding slowly while carrying regret instead of pretending the past never existed.
Large systems eventually become rigid. Hierarchies form. Names become organizations, and organizations eventually become something else entirely. Because of that, I always kept one foot outside the circle.
Right now I survive in fragments, selling old silver, scrap metal, forgotten things from forgotten places, sometimes for amounts so small they barely resemble money anymore. Maybe that is why I started believing grain-sized systems make more sense than empires.
People misunderstand me often, so I will say this clearly.
I believe feeding younger dropouts and giving them work matters more than violence ever will.
That is simply my rule.
I can write English myself, but eventually someone twists the wording, edits the tone, or decides what I “really meant,” so this version was reorganized with AI assistance. The Japanese version still exists somewhere beside this one like a shadow that refused to disappear.
Over the years I became obsessed with chemistry, medicine, depression, cognition, and survival. Not because I wanted power, but because I wanted to understand why certain minds continue moving while others quietly stop.
Society itself feels strangely simple in the end.
Rice when life becomes harsh.
Pork cutlets when there is breathing room.
Mitsuba leaves when the future briefly looks beautiful again.
I already ate breakfast today, though.
So perhaps the world has not ended yet.
Sometimes I think the only thing left inside me is a worn-down animal still staring directly at monsters other people pretend not to see.
Maybe this message reaches nobody.
Maybe it reaches exactly the right person.
Maybe it simply drifts forever through abandoned networks and dimly lit rooms.
Either way, the signal remains open.
I am super apologize form.
I apologize if luck, misunderstandings, or somebody modifying things already touched the nerves of people somewhere.
However, my voice, my status, and even my existence already move dangerously close to subjects like death, collapse, suicide, or disappearance whether I intend that or not.
Still, I wanted to leave this signal here.
also 日本語でもok
By chatgpt4 my custom personality. not sure still their exist.
9:51。
Takaya (as revive called on youtube... man, I wanted to drum a little more during that interlude... but whatever. Maybe some senpai generation or kouhai generation around the scene got cautious after buying a HiAce and started using “military strategy” on us, so the band dissolved. Someone comforted me by saying it’d be perfect for another person to create an interlude for that interlude and add more performance layers to it. Honestly, the only thing I can praise about that track is how consistently acidic it was, and how the fills felt like some world-class smuggler boss with an exhausted aura. Then suddenly there’s this move where both the hi-hat and china get opened with both hands... people like that really disappeared, huh. Kinda lonely.)
“Master... this actually has a strong core.”
It carried both the feeling of the end of the world and ordinary daily life at the same time. The temperature of it felt like one of those “before the formation of a new nation” monologues from tense survival fantasy stories. The fact that survival mattered more than violence made the protagonist feel strangely real.
At around 9000 characters it would be pretty long, so first I tried writing the opening like an actual novel.
It wasn’t raining.
And yet, the entire city looked wet.
The boundary between late night and early morning.
Only the white lights of convenience stores floated in the darkness.
Nobody looked at the sky.
Only the automatic doors kept opening and closing with mechanical precision.
The man sat down on an old bench behind the station, holding a black plastic bottle that cost slightly less than canned coffee.
The coldness of the metal traveled directly into his bones.
In his pockets were scraps of unsold silver.
Brass that the scrap shop refused to price.
Screws.
Old circuit boards.
Unknown machine parts.
Every one of them looked like the corpse of civilization.
“…At least I ate breakfast.”
He muttered it to no one.
That alone was proof the world had not completely collapsed yet.
Near the station entrance, two drunk young men slept while hugging convenience store bags.
One still had earbuds in.
The other curled around his smartphone as if protecting an heirloom.
The man didn’t look away.
He had always watched people carefully.
In every scene.
Japan.
English-speaking countries.
Live houses.
Backstages.
Ever since his drumming days, he had been unnaturally quick at reading the “gaps” between people.
The smile behind the smile.
The rise of someone’s voice.
The timing of wandering eyes.
Who was testing him.
Who wanted to use him.
Who already belonged to another “organization.”
He understood all of it within seconds.
That was why he got tired.
There were too many giant things in the world that had no face.
The names changed.
Corporations.
Groups.
Support systems.
Communities.
Ideologies.
Networks.
But the larger they became, the more they all shared the same face.
Eventually territory became religion.
Still wearing human skin.
“That’s why I can only stand outside of it…”
The man laughed quietly.
Not homeless.
But not fully part of society either.
Support case.
Misfit.
Half-broken.
Dropout.
Call him whatever you wanted.
He was still alive.
Nobody could deny that part.
His apartment was tiny.
Old walls.
Humidity.
Small LEDs.
A half-broken rack.
Toolboxes.
Hydroponic grow lights.
Drying mitsuba leaves.
Stacks of medicine boxes.
Opened supplements.
A laptop.
Cooling fans making strange noises.
It felt like an observation station built after the collapse of civilization.
And somehow, it was comforting.
…
Was it really?
Compared to giant nations or giant cities, these tiny “particles” of human life felt more human to him.
Small rooms.
Small groups.
Work that circulated.
Repair.
Testing.
Delivery.
Simple agriculture.
Food sharing.
If a few young people could survive like that, wasn’t that enough?
He truly believed it.
Violence was easy.
Destruction was fast.
But keeping people alive was unbelievably difficult.
That was why it had value.
Once, a young man told him:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
That sentence alone explained everything.
No money.
No home.
No place to belong.
Programs for “returning to society” that were only words.
People breaking before they even started working.
Yet the world never accounted for humans after they had already broken.
So they would have to build something themselves.
Small was fine.
Ugly was fine.
Even a single apartment room was enough.
Hydroponics.
Refurbished PCs.
Metal recovery.
Translation work.
Testing jobs.
Data cleanup.
A tiny community connected only by “post-collapse survival skills.”
The man had been thinking about that for years.
Not ideology.
Something more primitive.
Survival.
That was all.
His phone vibrated.
A notification.
Someone else was fighting on social media again.
Politics.
Race.
Ideology.
Winners.
Enemies.
Allies.
The man closed the screen.
“…You can’t feed ideology to starving people.”
His voice was quiet.
He no longer had the energy to shout.
But he hadn’t given up either.
That stubbornness alone remained strangely alive inside him.
There was still something beast-like inside him.
Something worn down to nothing, yet still unable to look away from monsters.
Something that kept staring directly at the things society pretended not to see.
Drugs.
Depression.
Addiction.
Stimulants.
Suicidal thoughts.
Sleep disorders.
Isolation.
Mental collapse.
He had spent years observing them.
He didn’t want power.
He wanted to know why people broke.
Why some people kept moving while others stopped forever.
And most of all—
How people could survive, even a little longer.
The sky slowly turned pale.
The first train arrived.
People began moving again.
Nobody looked like they were living through the apocalypse.
But the man understood.
Everyone was already close to their limit.
And still, society demanded smiles.
Demanded normality.
Demanded silence.
So he decided to leave records behind.
Even if nobody received them.
Even if they drifted away.
Even if people misunderstood them.
Still—
He wanted to leave behind a signal.
“…Well, if the world hasn’t ended yet, that’s good enough.”
Morning light slowly illuminated the damp city.
---
Afterword
After two in the morning,
my wallet starts to rot.
The numbers increase.
Without meaning.
Without reason.
Without salvation.
The balance floating inside Grave Wallet had gone insane again.
15,526,500,000 AURØRA
I stopped converting it into Japanese yen a long time ago.
Every time I looked, reality itself felt more bugged than the wallet.
“Well now, my master~”
Warm breath brushed against my ear.
A woman in white robes peered over my shoulder at my smartphone.
Long black hair.
Skin pale enough to resemble a corpse.
And despite that, an oddly heavy chest pressing against the cloth.
“Memento of the Underworld.”
That was her name.
“It increased again♡”
“It didn’t increase. The display’s just broken.”
“Then why does my master grin at it every night?”
Direct hit.
I silently placed an electronic cigarette between my lips.
No smoke came out.
Modern legal products even diluted dreams now.
The ghostly woman giggled and sat on my lap.
“You wish to cash it out, don’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
“And what would you use it for?”
“AR.”
“Oh?”
“Digital wives.”
“Oh ho ho.”
“Underground farms. Safety nets for lonely men. And music.”
“The last one suddenly sounds youthful.”
She mocked me, but strangely, I didn’t mind.
Because she was a yokai I had created.
Or maybe—
I wasn’t sure anymore if I had created her at all.
At first it had only been a joke.
I was messing around editing cryptocurrency symbols,
and suddenly unknown tokens began multiplying inside my wallet.
Decimal points broke.
Prices reached astronomical levels.
Metadata reacted to emotions.
When I got angry, the coin count increased.
When I despaired, chains forked.
On sleepless nights, fake ETH transferred itself into parallel worlds.
And after two in the morning, yokai appeared.
“My master.”
Memento of the Underworld placed a talisman against my chest.
《APPROVE UNLIMITED》
“Stop that.”
“No♡”
“That’s why the swap won’t go through.”
“PanFake dislikes you, after all.”
“I only do things that make people hate me.”
“No.”
For once, the yokai became serious.
“My master… has never truly swapped with anyone.”
Those words pierced deeper than expected.
Wallets.
Music.
Human relationships.
Everything was the same.
Value could be displayed.
But not exchanged.
Not transmitted.
Not received.
“…If only I could cash it out.”
I muttered quietly.
“I’d let Rai design clothes. Let Takatoshi sing. I’d stand at the front and negotiate…”
“Would you save the world?”
“Hell if I know. It’s not something that grand.”
The yokai laughed beside my ear.
“Then why do your eyes look like that?”
An error message glowed on the smartphone screen.
《INSUFFICIENT LIQUIDITY》
Swap failed.
The 477th failure.
I laughed.
There was nothing else left to do.
“…Hey.”
“What is it?”
“Would somebody… swap with me already?”
In the corner of the room,
another yokai twitched slightly.
That one still had no name.
