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About Nagoya

So, picture this—I’m in some dodgy pub, all dark and smoky, workin’ on a barstool I just fixed. This bird walks in, proper tarted up, heels clickin’ like gunshots. She’s a whore, no doubt, but there’s somethin’ about her. Not just the obvious, yeah? She’s got that look—like she’s seen too much, felt too much. Reminds me of Alicia in the movie, lyin’ there, silent but screamin’. I’m like, “Bloody hell, love, you’re a walkin’ tragedy.” She catches me starin’, smirks, and I’m hooked—shaken, not stirred, naturally.

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Finally, I get my sushi, and it’s bomb. I’m walking down the street, feeling like a king, when suddenly, it starts pouring. Like, outta nowhere! I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little shop on Kōen-dōri, and it’s this cute little place selling handmade crafts. I’m browsing, and I find this ridiculous cat figurine. It’s ugly as sin, but I can’t help but laugh. I buy it. Why? Because why not?

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