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About Fukuoka

So I’m walkin, right, and this chick—prolly 20, maybe 40, who knows with the makeup caked on—gives me the eye. I’m like, “Honey, I ain’t buyin what you’re sellin less I know the deal.” She smirks, all sassy, and I’m thinkin, *damn, this is some real-life cinema*. Godard’s voice in my head: “The image is a prison.” Ain’t that the truth? She’s trapped, I’m trapped, we’re all stuck starin at each other like idiots. I ask her name—Crystal, she says. Yeah, sure, “Crystal”—prolly Susan from Ohio, but whatever, I roll with it.

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Yo, lemme tell ya about my day in Fuchucho. Man, it was a wild ride! I woke up, and the sun was blazin’ through my window. I was like, “Great, another hot day in this crazy city.” Fuchucho, man, it’s got this vibe. Streets are packed, people everywhere, and the smell of takoyaki wafting through the air.

Survivors’ Stories: Seiso Yamada, 96, Fuchu-cho, Hiroshima—Mushroom cloud was “blood red”