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About Kyoto

Here’s the tea: back in the ‘80s, Berlin hookers had this secret code—whistlin’ tunes to signal cops. Prostitute’d totally do that, whistlin’ my riffs, maybe. I’d be flattered, tbh. Oh, and her guitar? Probly a pawn shop steal—strings missin’, still slaps. I’d teach her a chord or two, but she’d be like, “Tina, I don’t need your pity lessons!”—and I’d respect the hell outta that.

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So, I roll outta bed, right? 7 AM, and I’m already late. My coffee? Cold. My toast? Burnt. Classic. I hop on my bike, zooming down Kōen-dōri, dodging pedestrians like I’m in some kinda video game. Seriously, people, it’s a street, not a catwalk!