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About Sapporo

Personal quirk? I’m hummin’ “Hold On, We’re Going Home” while negotiatin’. Weird flex, but it calms me. Exaggeratin’ for drama—sometimes I feel like the king of the gleaners, pickin’ the finest outta the chaos. YOLO, right? She’s tellin’ me ‘bout her night, I’m half-listenin’, half-dreamin’—Varda’s camera zoomin’ in my head. “The gleaners live on leftovers,” she’d say. That’s us, fam, me and her, vibin’ on scraps of the night.

No Shame in the Neoshaman: The Deadly Rise and Fall of a Florida Ayahuasca Church

But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a nearby café on Sakae-dōri. I’m shivering, and the barista looks at me like I’m a wet dog. I order a coffee, and she hands me this tiny cup. I’m like, “Is this a joke?” I need a bucket, not a thimble!

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