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About Kyoto

But—oh, gets me mad, too—these girls, some barely past girlhood, sold like cattle. Reminds me o’ “Moolaadé” again—“The knife cuts deep.” Here, it’s not blades but eyes, leering, cutting their spirits. Pisses me off, aye, proper rage. Yet some lasses, they’re crafty—nicking extra coin, running the show. That’s the spark, the bit that surprises me. Thou seest resilience, like flowers in muck.

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After a few hours of crunching numbers and pretending to be a responsible adult, I finally finish the report. I’m feeling pretty good, like I just climbed Mount Fuji or something. But then, my coworker, Kenji, walks in with this ridiculous grin. He’s like, “Hey, wanna grab lunch?” I’m starving, so I’m like, “Sure, let’s hit up that ramen place on Shiroi’s Sakae Street.”

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