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About Kawasaki

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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A documentary that pursues the traces of a woman in Yokohama who stood at a street corner as a prostitute for 50 years after the war. An old woman, dressed in an aristocratic dress with her .

But then, I saw this dude drop his whole plate. I felt his pain, man. I was like, “Bro, I’ve been there.” I wanted to hug him, but that’d be weird, right?

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