⚠️ WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS HEAVY MENTIONS OF NARCOTICS
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In fact, there is no such thing as character, something fixed and final. The real thing is something that novelists don't know how to write about. Or, if they tried, the end result would never be a novel.
Real people are strangely difficult to make sense out of.
Even a god would have his hands full trying. But maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, presuming that other people are a mess just because I'm put together in such a disorderly way.
If so I should apologize.
— Natsume Soseki —
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pic above: toyota century. a luxury vehicle produced for the Japanese market and most notably used for chauffeuring business people and diplomats such as the prime minister etc;
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Kakuseizai : yakuza/street slang in Japan for "speed", a.k.a methamphetamines
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— Ise bay, Japan — November 18th ; [3: 26 a.m JST] — PORT OF NAGOYA — ___________________
Ushijima flicked away the remainder of ashes, blowing a large puff of smoke into the night air. One which was barely visible.
The water crashed against the dock beneath him, causing the rotten wood to groan with each impact. The tides brung a bone chattering breeze with them. He squinted into the distance at festive lights from a shore far across the sea.
It was lively. Probably a carnival of some sort to celebrate the beginning of winter.
"Wakatoshi? It's just you?"
A familiar voice chimed from behind, almost drowned out by the waves. He turned to see a man of similar stature stride towards him. He blew the last of his smoke before dropping his arm limply at his side.
"You sound like you want to try something." "HA! I'm not that much of an idiot." "What's up with the request though? ...It's rather odd of you."
