Lost Girls and Love Hotels

quick succession to blunt the reality of Bar Let’s Go.

Just riding the train to kill time. Kill memory. To enjoy the spectacle of anonymity.

But then it begins, like love affairs do, with a chance meeting, and then a raw empty something needing to be sated, something you didn’t notice before. But suddenly it squawks like a hungry bird, day and night, refusing to be ignored. You love and revile it, this sore shrieking something

You are in Siberia. In a flimsy hut. The wind howling around you.

Some money is exchanged. Some bowing is done.

Forty-eight little bars and restaurants and karaoke places in one little six-story building on a street with hundreds of little buildings, in a city with hundreds of streets like this.

The endless anonymous concourse.

If you scream on a deserted Tokyo street, on a Sunday, in English, do you really make a sound?

I’m the vulnerable postcoital girl doll.

three-hour screw and a shower is euphemized as a “rest,” while the all-night fuckfest is a “stay.”