When everything felt like a good old bluesy guitar riff

If we're sitting in a cafe somewhere in Marseille and smoking French cigars, and you ask me what I did in Tokyo ten years ago, I'd tell you about these past weeks, when I did nothing but read and write and read, and how come the city was so unshaken with how tangible my thoughts were, and how I could almost touch all of them at one instance on my way home at 6 in the morning.