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About Kobe

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Minamata Disease). She is still relatively unknown, however, among non-Japanese, so it nmay be helpful to situate her work in the historical context against.

But then, I trip over a stray cat. Like, how does that even happen? I’m sprawled out on the ground, and this cat just looks at me like, “Dude, you good?” I laugh it off, but I’m also mad. Why can’t I have a normal day?

Japan remembers Minamata