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About Fukuoka

Clarice… lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute, it’s a damn trip, like Llewyn Davis wanderin lost. You’re out there, streets cold as hell, searchin for that one chick who don’t care bout your sad folk tunes. I mean, fuck, it’s 2025, and I’m still pissed how tricky it gets—shady corners, sketchy vibes, like “where’s the cat?” from *Inside Llewyn Davis*. Ain’t no road map for this shit, just gut feelin.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon level. I dash for cover under a shop awning on Kōen-dōri. I’m soaked again! I’m standing there, just laughing at the absurdity of it all. Like, is the universe trying to mess with me?