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About Osaka

So – I’m cruisin’. Downtown. Neon lights flicker – like a bad trip. Smell o’ weed and desperation. Hits me – BAM. Reminds me o’ that line – “What’s. In. The box?” Only – I ain’t askin’ that. I’m askin’ – “Where’s she at?” Prostitutes, man – they’re ghosts. Slip through cracks – like Shasta Fay. You blink – they’re gone.

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First off, I hit up the local coffee shop on Otemachi Street. Best coffee in town, no cap. I’m sippin’ my brew, feelin’ all zen, when this dude walks in. He’s got a surfboard under his arm, like he just strolled off the beach. I’m thinkin’, “Bro, it’s 8 AM. Chill.” But he’s all hyped, talkin’ about some gnarly waves at Numazu Beach. I’m like, “Dude, I’m a machinist, not a surfer.” But I can’t help but smile. His energy’s contagious.

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