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About Kobe

Sometimes I ponder, sprawled on me couch—doth she laugh at us? At the johns, the judges? Her smirk’s a dagger, sharp and sly. “O brave new world, that hath such people in’t!”—she’s the brave one, strutting where angels fear to tread. But damn, the stench of it—grubby hands, fake smiles—gets me gut boiling. Still, she’s a survivor, a rogue queen in a game rigged rotten.

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I rush outta bed, throw on whatever I can find. I’m talking mismatched socks and a shirt that’s probably older than my dog. I grab a quick breakfast—just a rice ball from the konbini down the street on Chuo-dori. Those things are life savers, man.

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