Late night early morning sees crowds swilling around, barely dressed and swigging beer, shrill shrieks washing through the muggy night air. The neon seem to melt into the moist air, the men in white folded hats outside beckoning in custom fading into the haze. Girls in suspenders and whorishly short shorts wobble down the street in patent stilettos, clutching cans of premixed cocktails and whooping louder than any Japanese girl should… the rattle and scream of hurtling trains is offset by the eerie peace of shoji-lined interiors with wooden slats, customers soon sprawled across the tatami’d floor, sockless and senseless with alcohol and humidity. The ritualised call of shop staff is like birdsong, backtracked with the clatter and pant of construction behind them…
"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.
The first specialty coffee shop in Ikebukuro and Junkudo (bookstore) resonate.
Editing is interpreting.
The Riddle of Steel.
The man stands motionless in a crush of white-shirted salarymen, as they swarm past him, toward the single escalator.
Rêve de centre commercial-piscine
Birthday walk home