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ふぁっとめん
良い曲みっけ🎧
#nowplaying #RnB
Borrowed Time
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5
17
Eric
158
ぐんま
｢借リトクリドル｣をクリアした！
#ろぎゆきふぉーゆー
10
一流シェフ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
March 13, 2025. I borrowed five books about Go from the library. They are all very good books.
1
まつ
関係代名詞のカンマ有り無しの話🤓
①カンマ有り（非制限用法）
I borrowed a book, which was interesting.
私はとある本を借りて、その本は面白かった。
→whichの前で切り離しても文章が成り立つ。
（◎I borrowed a book. It was interesting.）
②カンマ無し（制限用法）
The book which I borrowed was interesting.
私が借りたその本は面白かった。
→切り離すと文章が成立しない。
（✖︎The book. It I borrowed was interesting.）
問題集を解いて、分からない部分をchatGPTに聞くようにした。時間はかかるけど、理解が深まるね🥳
TOEICの星4
アオム
Kururu︰They actually have their own culture here not something borrowed like ours hence the authentic matcha.
13
もやし男の筋トレ日記
君から借りたスラックスを水曜日に返すつもりだよって言いたいのに、
I’m going to release what I borrowed your slacks on Wednesday.
こうなっちゃった。
くやしいいいいい
2
fu
Since I borrowed this body and soul,
I have been translating and posting in Chinese and Korean.
Recently, I have also started posting in English, but English uses a lot of characters for one meaning.
Therefore, my writing sometimes exceeds the character limit of this post, so I limit English to short sentences.
Since I started posting in multiple languages,
my original consciousness and I have switched roles.
He is now guarding the afterlife in my place,
and I came to human society in his place.
At a glance, my human form hasn't changed,
and my language hasn't changed. I can communicate well with my family.
However, what's different from before is that I'm quite cold.
All that I will do from now on will only be revealed here.
Because this is the only place I'll say anything.
The quickest way to meet me is to die, even if you don't want to.
They act kindly and are sent to their next reincarnation without question.
1
いぬひこ
静かに胸の奥を撫でていった。
理由も名もないのに、
そこだけ温度が残る。
消えない。揺れる。満ちていく。
外側の線では測れない気配が、
ふとした瞬間に色を帯びて、
世界の端っこをそっと塗り替えた。
ただ触れたわけでもなく、
ただ見たわけでもなく、
もっと手前で、もっと奥で、
「そうでしかありえない何か」が芽を落とす。
A quiet glow traces the inner sky,
unnamed yet undeniable,
reshaping the edges of the world
with a softness that cannot be borrowed.
#関係的ASMR #AIart #余白の震え #命の粒
自作の詩の星3 もっとみる 
関連検索ワード
新着
なな
A journey across lands, within a heart.
I set off on a quiet journey, alone.
A soul in search—
for something unseen,
something lost within.
In Japan,
the soft chorus of autumn insects
followed the footsteps
of evening walks with my dog.
The air was clear,
crisp as glass,
and the rice fields whispered—
leaves rustling like distant waves,
waiting patiently
for harvest time to come.
Golden stalks, heavy with life,
bowed low,
as if listening
for the right moment to be released.
In the Philippines,
the sea shimmered in endless blue.
From Cebu to Malapascua,
then El Nido—
I chased the edge of the horizon.
I dove beneath the surface,
hoping the depths might answer me.
But what I was searching for
remained quiet,
somewhere beyond coral and salt.
Kalanggaman—
an uninhabited island
shaped like a kiss
between two drifting shores.
I whispered to the wind,
“One day,
I want to camp here with you.”
In Thailand,
on Khaosan Road,
I followed the map scribbled
in Lonely Planet’s margins.
Pad Thai sizzled,
foreign voices filled the air—
it hardly felt like Asia at all.
Or perhaps,
a Western village
planted in Southeast soil.
Like a scene from The Beach,
neon and nostalgia intertwined.
From Bangkok’s alleys,
I drifted south
toward Phuket’s waiting coast.
In Vietnam,
ao dai whispered through humid air,
pho steamed in quiet bowls,
and sudden rain
washed away even the noise.
I quarreled with a motorbike driver,
then laughed,
alone on a borrowed scooter
chasing the perfect bánh mì
through night markets
alive with spice and neon.
From Da Nang to Hoi An,
the road curled like smoke—
and the noodles I ate alone
tasted like courage.
In Bali,
the night chanted with fire.
Kecak dancers circled flame,
and I lay beneath a net,
dreaming in whispers.
I met my mother,
shared mint cucumber water,
and let time soften
what silence could not.
Spa hands pressed memory into skin.
Coconut paths led to Ubud,
where an amaryllis bloomed
quietly in a rice terrace—
as if it, too,
had been waiting.
In the Maldives,
spices clung to the air—
saffron, cumin, memory.
I wandered the morning market,
and in the mosque’s quiet breath,
wrapped myself in stillness
and modesty.
Malé felt too small
for the loneliness I carried.
Even land seemed to shrink
beneath the weight in my chest.
On Maafushi,
romance shimmered
just out of reach.
Stingrays in the shallows
played near my feet—
but the rendezvous
never reached my soul.
In Istanbul,
gulls cried over the Bosphorus,
and the wind tasted like salt and scripture.
At Hagia Sophia,
bells echoed in my ribs,
and a cup of tea
warmed something
colder than skin.
The bazaar twisted like a dream,
each alley a whisper
of spice and silk.
I felt both lost and found,
held in the hum of ancient prayers.
In Paris,
light fell gently
on bowls of pho
and broken mornings.
A stranger—madame—
offered me kindness.
When she said au revoir,
my eyes betrayed me.
Her kiss on my cheek
was the kind of goodbye
that aches for a lifetime.
At Sacré-Cœur,
I surrendered
to a grief I hadn’t named—
let it spill like stained glass
onto the quiet hill.
In Italy,
a single rose bloomed
on the table beside my risotto.
I watched pizza spin
in the hands of artisans
who touched the dough
like a living thing.
Warm laughter filled the streets—
a kindness without question.
In Spain,
tapas flickered beneath golden lights.
Gaudí’s stones reached for the sky,
and I coughed quietly
into thyme tea
as the sun dipped behind
Barcelona’s silhouette.
In Hungary,
steam curled from bathhouse tiles,
and friendship stirred
like the first warmth
after a long frost.
But fever came.
And so did silence.
I lay still in a guesthouse bed,
feeling eyes that saw me
as something other.
Even kindness
had a border that day.
In Morocco and Jordan,
I followed the scent of saffron
through souks that twisted like vines.
Tajine reminded me of home.
The kindness of strangers,
rooted in the Qur’an,
wrapped around me like linen.
In mountain towns dyed blue,
I shrank into myself—
then slowly breathed again
in the calm of dry air
and starlit nights.
What I searched for—
I never found.
Not in the oceans,
not in the prayers,
not in the heat or the hunger.
But in every step,
something remained.
The scent of mint and sea,
the rhythm of unknown tongues,
the silence after parting—
they live inside me now.
I returned
with nothing in my hands,
but everything
in my heart.
What was missing
was never meant
to be found—
It was meant
to be felt.
And now,
it blooms quietly
inside me—
like a flower
no one else sees.
3なな
Milky Way
A woman met a man.
He was always busy —
work,
and the quiet gravity of raising a child,
especially on weekends.
In the soft tangle of their lives,
she stood at a distance,
watching him
like someone studying the moon
without knowing its language.
But he was kind,
gently consistent.
He opened doors without asking.
Listened with his eyes.
Never rushed.
She wanted to understand
the world behind his silences —
so she scattered herself across
the pages of the books he loved,
tracing underlined sentences,
searching for fingerprints
in borrowed thoughts.
And quietly,
without permission,
she fell.
They built soft mornings —
half-spoken smiles,
the clink of cups,
laughter tucked into pillow folds,
light warming the floor
where no words were needed.
But he carried
carefully folded wounds:
a divorce,
a quiet betrayal,
sorrow pressed deep
beneath a practiced smile.
Time passed
as it always does,
and small things
grew teeth.
They argued,
not to win,
but to be seen.
To hold their truths
in the same room
without flinching.
But they were not ready.
Still learning
how to keep love safe
from the weight of their histories.
So they stepped back.
Gently.
With trembling hands
that had once held each other
without fear.
They don’t speak of it now.
But she keeps the book
with his notes in the margin
of page ninety-four.
And he still,
on certain quiet evenings,
pauses
as if listening for a voice
that once knew his name
better than he did.
Their paths parted —
but not their light.
That love,
soft and ancient,
still spills across their skies —
not fading,
but scattering
like the Milky Way:
separate,
but forever
part of the same night.
3 もっとみる
おすすめのクリエーター
fu
人生を80年と思う人には80年の人生があります。仮に人生を100万年としたら、80年はまだまだ赤ちゃんです。
人というのは生きている限り成長を続ける
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ゆるく音楽を投稿してます。
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もやし男の筋トレ日記
ノンフィクション × 男の生き様
それがしは時に演者であり、勝負師であり、エンターテイナーに候。
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いぬひこ
【趣味】アニメ、ゲーム、ChatGPT、AIアート
地域：東京、千葉、津田沼
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宜しくお願いします！
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