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About Fukuoka

But serious, it’s a tough gig. Rainy nights, cheap motels, hopin’ for a kind john. Breaks my heart, then I get mad again. Why ain’t there better ways? I’m just a rabbit, but even I see it’s a trap. “The dead don’t talk,” like in Anatolia—some stories stay buried. That’s the real crime, doc. Eh, I’m ramblin’. Whaddaya think?

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Finally, I decide to take a break. I stroll down to the riverbank. The view is stunning. The sun setting over the water, reflecting all those pink blossoms. I take a deep breath. This is why I love Fukayacho. It’s chaotic, but it’s home.