Sunny Day Service has a song called "Setsuna." And Kenji Ozawa has an album called *Setsuna*. This word, "setsuna"—capturing the fleeting, the momentary—has stayed with me for a long time.

A mere instant. A duration of time that vanishes in a flash. Something that cannot endure. Yet, by virtue of its brevity, it shines with a peculiar brilliance. *Setsuna* is not simply a short span of time. Rather, I think it is the kind of time that lingers precisely because of its brevity. That which endures becomes routine, habit, and institution. It is named and explained. But *setsuna* is different. It flashes for just an instant. At that moment, its meaning escapes us. Only later do we recall it and finally ask ourselves, "What was that?"

There is such a moment tucked inside Sunny Day Service’s "Setsuna." Their songs do not shout emotions at the top of their lungs. They are placed quietly within the everyday. Spring, cherry blossoms, evening, a bedroom, love, youth, the town, boredom—a briefly dazzling moment. No grand dramas unfold. Yet, within ordinary days, something is quietly, surely being lost. They do not speak of this loudly. This subtlety is quintessential Sunny Day Service.

Their *setsuna* does not reside in the grand narrative of the city, but in the mundane everyday. A moment that should have been right there is, before we know it, already far away. That room, that person, that season, the self from those days—none will return. But they have not vanished entirely. They remain within the song.

The same is true for "Sakura Super Love." The word *sakura* (cherry blossom) has been sung countless times in Japanese pop. They bloom. They scatter. They are beautiful. But they do not last. I believe cherry blossoms are defined not by the flower itself, but by the act of scattering. This is why every cherry blossom song always contains a hint of parting. No matter how brightly sung, the blossoms will fall. No matter how much it feels like the beginning of love, there is a shadow of the end. Japanese pop has sung of this shadow of finality time and again.

Kenji Ozawa’s *Setsuna* also dwells in this realm. Yet Ozawa’s *setsuna* differs slightly from Sunny Day’s. If Sunny Day’s is a light that unexpectedly falls into daily life, Ozawa’s is distinctly urban. The city, love, words, literature, festivals, light. Places where people gather only to quickly disperse.

There is an urban shimmer in Kenji Ozawa’s music. Shibuya, the night, cafés, streets, references, intellect, love, slightly buoyant words. But that shimmer does not last forever. Rather, it is a moment where everything seems to connect, only to unravel immediately. Hence, the word *setsuna* fits perfectly. For just an instant, the city, love, music, and words shine at the exact same height. But you cannot grasp that moment. By the time you try, it has already passed.

Ozawa's songs possess that kind of velocity. Words race, references leap, and light darts across the cityscape. Yet beneath it lies not mere ostentation, but a keen sensitivity to things that fade.

The song "Aru Hikari" (A Certain Light) is much the same. The light is there. But it is not something you can possess. The moment you think you see it, it has already moved elsewhere. Light cannot be preserved. And so, it becomes a song.

It is the same with *setsuna*. It cannot be preserved or captured on the spot. It can only be remembered after the fact. And by the time we remember it, it has already transformed. I believe that is the nature of memory. It is not an accurate record, but something that returns to us like particles of light after time has passed.

Listening to Sunny Day’s "Setsuna." Recalling Ozawa’s *Setsuna*. Cherry blossom songs coming to mind one after another. Gradually, they all begin to connect. Japanese pop has repeatedly sung of the "vanishing." Cherry blossoms scatter, summer ends, dawn breaks, love passes. Youth drifts away, the town shifts, voices fade, and people go. Yet it is not merely sad. It lingers precisely because it vanishes.

I find this to be the profound depth of Japanese pop. Things that stay forever actually become invisible. They are taken for granted, and gratitude fades. But the vanishing is different. Because we know it will never return, that single moment shines.

It is often said that cherry blossoms are beautiful because they fall. But I do not think this is mere aesthetics. The scattering carves time into our physical being. The same spring will never come again. We cannot meet the same person again. We cannot remain the same self. The cherry blossoms remind us of this every year. That, I think, is why they appear so often in Japanese songs.

Cherry blossoms easily evoke a sense of impermanence. Yet impermanence is not exclusive to them. It exists in summer, in twilight, in shooting stars, in fireflies, in contrails, and in youth. Things that appear for a brief moment and vanish. All of them may simply be other names for *setsuna*.

This *setsuna* exists both in the everyday of Sunny Day Service and in the city of Kenji Ozawa. One resides in daily life, the other in urban light. But both fade. Because they vanish, they become songs.

What is important here is not to try too hard to preserve what vanishes. In our digital and AI era, everything seems preservable. We take photos, record videos, capture audio, archive chats, compile playlists, upload to the cloud, and have AI summarize it all. But being recorded is not the same as lingering. There are many things that exist as data but do not remain in the body. Conversely, there are moments we never recorded that dwell in us forever. *Setsuna* is close to the latter. It remains because it cannot be recorded. To be exact, it does not record; it sinks into the body.

The air of that moment. The voice of that person. The evening light. The fatigue in your feet walking through town. That feeling of not being able to say something. A lyric you remember for no clear reason. Such things linger deeper than any photo or video.

Music sometimes touches this. The instant we hear a song, a moment we thought forgotten comes rushing back. Yet it is not a perfect replication. Rather, it returns slightly altered. Listening as an adult to a song heard in youth reveals a different meaning. Lyrics that made no sense then pierce the heart now. What seemed like a simple pop song suddenly takes on a sense of impermanence. The song did not change; the body listening has traveled through time.

This is why we recognize *setsuna* only after the fact. While in the middle of it, we do not notice. We are just happy. Just sad. Just walking. Just talking to someone. Just listening to a song. Yet looking back, that specific moment shines with a peculiar glow. We realize it was a time that will never return.

Both Sunny Day Service's "Setsuna" and Kenji Ozawa's *Setsuna* give a name to such moments. Giving a name to what disappears—perhaps that is what songs are for. Yet even when named, the disappearing cannot be stopped. Cherry blossoms fall. Summer ends. Love changes. Youth grows up. The city turns into another town. Even so, the song remains. A song is not meant to stop the vanishing, but perhaps to let us listen to the loss once more.

Impermanence named *setsuna*. It flows deep within Japanese pop. In bright songs, danceable songs, urban songs, and sweet love songs alike. Something that shines for a mere instant and vanishes. We listen to that light, over and over again.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-06-07