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From A Subculture Deluxe

Dressed in a black silk dress with a sensual slit down the right thigh, she slowly and carefully got out of the jet black CLK coupe. The rain was drizzling still into this, the early hours of an Akasaka night-come-morning. Naked, the world felt, as there was no escape from the weather. The wind stood by for its turn.

“I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry. The night’s so young.” The man inside the car, decked out in a dark purple, pin-striped Ralph Lauren suit with his tie loosened up, was obviously confused. “I mean, I thought you wanted to go back to my place?”

Under the faintest glimmer of hope sprung out the beautifully crafted—of silken threads—eyes of the woman. Beneath ran a river, of a mixture, of rain and of sadness. She continued to walk towards her apartment building, a structure of definite Western influence, full-bodied and strong.

His eyes glared into the white of the lights in front of the building; they pierced him but he didn’t care. That’s where she was. That’s where she was going. His heart felt unease for he didn’t know what he had done wrong. Confusion arched his being.

There was space, night, lack of light, darkness between them. Within that, there lay a million moments of wisdom, of worry, of genius and stupidity. Of chances and risks never taken. He knew then that that moment would pass by, night would turn to day, that he’d go on living and that she’d find her place in life. It gave him a sense of momentary equilibrium.

Six point five billion stories for six point five billion dreamers. One per night. Sometimes, I wish I understood what they were trying to tell me.