Rice. Connection. Happiness. Even shiitake alone tastes so good. His voice is broth. His face is broth. Eating with such delight — Yutaka Matsushige. Ah, like a dream. Warm soup. Good vibrations. Even shiitake alone tastes so good. Amazing.
So quiet, I can hear. Kōji Yakusho, saying little. A cleaner of Shibuya’s toilets. The corners of his mouth lift. Light through leaves. A break at the shrine. You bought strawberry milk. A smile. A little camera turned toward sky and trees. Glimmers — something to live by. The everyday calm. A house in morning sun. Baths and bars. Cassettes and books. The poignancy of things. Shadows. Do they grow deeper as they accumulate? Japanese is lovely, isn’t it, Wim? Let’s zone out by the river again.
A flying-squirrel drummer. A bubble barrier. A green train from the future. A lion in a cage. A party hall. Silver shoes. A black hat, a pink flower in the hair, a booklet for the Emerald City. As she fell, I saw ten-year-old Elphaba, and in the end credits, Ariana Grande–Butera. It’s a musical, and it’s pure magic, so I’ll fly too. I’ll sleep among the poppies. My hair will go whoosh.
