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About Osaka

Angry, I get! Society, bah—judges them harsh, but survival, it is! DNA don’t care bout morals, just replication. Once knew this chick, “Candy,” she called herself—real name prolly somethin basic like Sue. Worked near a lab I crashed at, late nights, pipettin enzymes. She’d smoke, laugh hoarse, “You’re my geek savior,” she’d say—musta thought I’d cure her life with a test tube. Sad, it made me, her spark fadin like ATP runnin dry. “Amour” hits here— “You’re slipping away,” he tells her, helpless. Same deal, watchin Candy dissolve.

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Then, I decided to stroll down Tachiarai’s main street. It’s got these cute little shops, right? I’m checking out this place that sells handmade pottery. I’m all about supporting local artists. But then, I knock over a vase. Like, whoops! It shatters everywhere. I’m standing there, mortified. The shopkeeper’s face was priceless. I’m like, “I’ll pay for it!” But he just waves me off. “It’s okay, accidents happen.” I’m thinking, “Yeah, but my wallet’s gonna hate me!”

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