My soul lives at the surface of my body when I am on a short trip, alone, with no agenda but to sit in cafes and walk around at night under a winter’s moon.
I have coffee and curry for breakfast. I walk as far as my body will take me. The snow flurries in the afternoon. At night I buy a sweet potato out of the back of a truck to warm my hands on the walk home. I eat it quietly in my room.
In a basement punk bar in I drink highballs and eat pizza with a group expats. Professors. Punk kids. Smoking cigarettes and talking shit. They play “Give ‘Em Enough Rope” in its entirety. They’ve been here 20 years and the tab’s open for eternity. Quiet Japanese couples sit in the corner. People leave their shit on the stage. Another round. I learn about motorcycles and the Japanese punk scene. The walk home is cold, I smell like whiskey and American Spirits, and the bus is full of students going home from cram school.
On Sunday, Miura was a bonfire of cherry blossoms stoked by the sea air. We ate street food and sat by a lake. The world was in love with itself again.
