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About Saitama

We slip into an alley—dark, damp, pure *Mulholland* vibes. “This is the girl,” I think again, head spinnin’—wine or lust, who knows? She’s quick, efficient—prolly done this a hundred times. Me? I’m imaginin’ I’m Justin Theroux, all broody and lost, fuckin’ a stranger while the world unravels. “What’s my name?” I laugh again—stupid question, she don’t care. It’s over fast—too fast—and I’m left leanin’ on a wall, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ how bloody absurd it all is.

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Then, we hit up a local eatery on Kawai-dori. The food? OMG, so good! I’m munchin’ on some fresh sashimi, and it’s like a flavor explosion. I’m talkin’ about melt-in-your-mouth goodness. But then, I spill soy sauce all over my shirt. Great. Just great. I’m a mess.

Ascending Spiritual Mountains in Tottori, Japan