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About Fukuoka

Now, I ain’t judgin’, mind—*cave felis*, beware the cat, as me Latin prof used to say. Whore’s a survivor, ain’t she? Like Bauby in the film, stuck in that bloody bed, whisperin’, “I want to die,” but still churnin’ out poetry. Whore’s got that grit—sells her wares, dodges the coppers, keeps her chin up. Makes me happy, that does—tough as old boots, she is! Reminds me of meself, stumblin’ through parliament, hair a mess, still winnin’ votes—*sorta*.

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After lunch, we head back to the lab. Power’s back on, thank goodness. We get back to work, and I’m feeling pumped. But then, I spill a whole beaker of some reagent. It’s like a mini explosion of blue goo everywhere. I’m freaking out, like, “Oh no, my career!” Yuki just laughs again. “You’re a mess, but a lovable one.” Thanks, Yuki.

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