When I unchain my imagination, letting it roam like an absent-minded grandmother, fingers roaming over undusted tables...

Ten thousand silkworms worth of kimonos, trapped in broken drawers in the attic.

Playing Fuck, Marry, Kill on the train I come up with mostly kills, no fucks and one marry-for-money.

"I'm from Libya," he said. I don't know what to say. It's as if he'd told me he'd just come from his father's funeral.

Ten years to the day. Thirteen hours in the air, giddy on plum wine, too drunk to be scared.

Six years of bad haircuts, ranging from the remortgage-your-house expensive to the hide-all-the-mirrors variety

Erotic gunpowder explosions erupt all over the city, and the streets are crawling with yukata, clompy geta sandals and the swish of fans for perspiring brows.

Tokyo air feels grubby, like sitting in the sesame-oil flecked effluent of a Chinese restaurant's air conditioner.

I can give up any time I want. You know, I don't really have to spend my hard-won weekends sweating in sprung-floor studios, declining invitations from friends.