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About Kawasaki

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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First stop? The local café, you know, the one on Shōwa Street. I needed my caffeine fix. I order a matcha latte, and the barista, bless her heart, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Dude, I just wanted a drink, not a waterfall!” But she laughs it off, and I can’t help but chuckle too.

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