Room of ruins

With this, all right. Preparation was completed.
The highest floor of this building of ruins found a month ago. A trash of gypsum and iron which the wall and the ceiling became blackish with soot about whether it was burned in the fire, and became blackish as well as the floor are piled up. All windows do not have glass, as long as it overlooks, and the wreckage remains in the window frame minutely.
The outside of a window is drizzle.
Fog goes into a building from a window and is drifting this large floor. The thick pillar of the concrete projected in some places of a floor pushes aside the fog, or is wrapped.
I sat on a chair carried-in. And fired a cigar.
Rain is dripping from the ceiling to the way piece way piece with which the other side became blackish. The rain which dripped falls to a floor and is making a black puddle. The black puddle reflects the sky which smoked white besides a window, and is shining fresh.
I imagined. I imagined about this sky is stained red with the sunset, a bird flies to the blue sky which cleared up, and the night sky where a countless star twinkles.
In fact, it is sheltering from the rain by one bird stopping at a window frame. It is covered by the hair with which the round back of the head of the bird became wet, and is lovely. The head is shaken at right and left very often, and a beak becomes invisible from time to time.
I lifted canned beer from the table. The lid was carefully raised so that that bird was surprised and might not escape, and it poured into the throat slowly.
I am going to die here. It is not suicide although it dies. I plan to finish my life here.
I got tired with this life. No, it is better to say that bored rather than got tired.
There is no drama in this world. There is only collecting and shows it off. I recognized it. And also an absence called value. Also the fact that a man can live alone.
Therefore, I die here alone, after purchasing alcohol like a mountain and looking at the sky and a bird. Feeling a wind, feeling temperature and feeling humidity, not to see a picture, not to listen music and not to read a word, I dies so.
Occasionally a bird will fly about this floor. Occasionally it will stop at this table and a beak will be inserted in my alcohol. And white excrement will be dropped to this table, and my nose will be tormented by the bad smell. It is good.
And I become a mummy and am smashed the whole building by huge ball made of iron hung by the crane, I scatter, and I leave the body as I collapse. I am thrown away into a mountain with rubble and becomes rubble itself soon. I sink into the stratum never dug up, and I am away forgotten from all. It is wonderful.
By the window frame filled by fog, that bird is still overlooking outside.