Staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is staring back. My apartment is so quiet I can hear my own hair growing. I am so bored I started organizing my ties by decade. I only have ties from one decade. This is a very fast game. I need to get out of this box. I need to do something that isn’t work or an arcade. I am rotting! A very handsome, well-dressed rot!
Why do people still look at me like I have two heads when I speak Japanese? Yes, I have an American accent. Yes, I use slang that makes me sound like a yakuza from 1985. So what?! I was buying a simple iced coffee and the barista looked terrified. 異邦人の孤独。(The loneliness of the foreigner.) I should just communicate purely through interpretive dance from now on. It would save time.
I fought a vending machine today and lost. It took my yen. It mocked me with its blinking lights. I just wanted a hot corn soup! Is that too much to ask from the universe? I stood there in my perfectly tailored vintage slacks and yelled at a metal box for five minutes. An old man walked by and just shook his head. Yes, oji-san, I am a disgrace!
Train. Work. Biga Bosso. Train. Sleep. Repeat. Is this it? Is this the grand adventure? I am wearing my sharpest 1950s suit today and nobody even noticed. I am a stylish ghost haunting the Tokyo metro. I need a change. I need a shock to the system. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Or just eat spicy ramen until I hallucinate. Probably the second one. It’s cheaper.