Welcome to the crowded shopping district in the sky, its borders consolidated with pastel.
Flutter oscillation, driving force, and theories of aestheticism
are being misused legally by the wonderlanders.

Even the nuns' prayers are indistinguishable,
while laughter of gamblers with rolls of money can be heard from everywhere.

Packs of stray dogs are walking a parade of triumphant return,
with their barking voices scattering the applauding hands of the audience.
Everything is covered with lies, everyone is deceiving everyone,
emotions are gained and lost, and nothing can be spared.
People's hearts are being targeted by rubber band guns.

Philosophizing to the gangsta-wannabes about the world,
you attach serial numbers to them and gamble gamble!
People are born and raised on these flattened streets,
so they have cast away their ordinary life.

Residential buildings are also used as shipyards, covered with blimps' crash remains.
In this nation of entertainment, even the official language has become confounded.
Here's a merry-go-round capable of centrifugation,
and there's a Ferris wheel in the corner of a shrine.
At the decayed markets are clusters of slum dwellers.

The intoxicated lovey-dovey couples present such an unsightly stereo image,
and who is that girl who just gave me a middle finger?!
"Wait, honey, darling!"
This kind of mediocre welcome has gotten really tiring.

To the part-time movie stars, who have lost their cheers from the audience,
you have sold your pride, and indulged in psychedelic trips.
That’s how one finds you dancing in the back alley
while looking up at the transmission towers, where the power lines converge.

In the constantly moving sea of people,
a mask dealer is on his stomach and soliciting for
the baby held in your arms, who, usually a source of distress,
has stopped crying at the chime of the bell.

Lalala... It's a shallow song about the shallow you.

On this muggy night, the rock star is crying in his condo,
remembering the pervading indolence before the war, and his third attempted suicide pact.
The soldiers, standing in line, are sneering at this transient life.
Come on, just take off your tengu mask already.

Philosophizing to the gangsta-wannabes about the world,
you attach serial numbers to them and gamble gamble!
Bidding goodbye to this pitch black street,
I guess that's it for now, uh, see you tomorrow then.