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About Fukuoka

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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I walked down Kawai Street again, and I swear, I saw the same old lady three times. She was just sitting there, knitting. I thought, “Is she a statue or what?” I almost asked her if she was okay. But then I remembered, it’s Japan. She’s probably just living her best life, knitting away.

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