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About Osaka

Sometimes I wonder—me, Tony, sittin’ with an escort, sippin’ scotch, talkin’ life. Bet she’d get me, y’know? Deep shit. “We’re all alone in the end,” like in the movie—fuck, that hits hard. Maybe I’d tip extra, tell her keep her head up. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but I’d probably say, “You’re the fuckin’ queen of the night, doll!”—make her laugh, lighten the mood.

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First off, I grab my coffee from that little joint on Kōen-dōri. You know the one? The barista there, Yuki, she’s got the best latte art. I mean, I’m not a coffee snob, but c’mon, a heart in my cup? That’s love, man. But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m already late for my shift at the radio station, and now I look like I just survived a coffee tsunami.

Chihiro Iwasaki and Snow （“Chihiro’s Birth House” Memorial Museum）