Yuki Eiri

This journal will no longer be updated.

Sat, 16 Jul 2005 06:59:05 GMT

A stagnant testament to everything that never was.

Blanket verse.

Sun, 05 Jun 2005 11:45:50 GMT

Blood does not fall like water. Its density prohibits it from moving so freely. A drop of water on a puddle will rise and bloom, scattering in a fit of symmetrical dissolution. A drop of blood is hard-pressed to expand on contact, leaving but a rusty smear as proof of birth.

It won't stop raining.

White noise.

Wed, 01 Jun 2005 06:43:36 GMT

Only the punctuation was left to rot; mangled dots in an apricot wasteland.

No more.

Thu, 06 May 2004 04:34:19 GMT

I can't stand occupying this space for another day. Even twelve hours is threatening to exert my tolerance beyond its threshold.

Now is as good a time as any to seek temporary solace from recent aberrations. Shuichi can start working again when we return. He's been away from the studio for so long, I'm not sure how much time it's going to require for him to become fully re-immersed in his work and regain his footing, though that can wait.

It can all wait.

I've had enough.

It has been a while since I last spoke with Noriko, so I'm not entirely sure what's happening in terms of her unfortunate condition. The uncertainty isn't improving anything. I hate not knowing for sure whether or not everything is going to change. There are enough gross transmutations currently underway as is.

If you want the number of where we're going to be, you're going to have to suffer. I have no intention of divulging such information to anyone.

Stranger than fiction.

Mon, 26 Apr 2004 14:03:11 GMT

I no longer have any faith in the recording industry, or any facet of capitalism which prompts desperate CEOs to interrupt the lunch of their prospects on the basis of wanting to sign them on the spot. Especially when they have nothing to go on but the enchanting voice of a rainbow-headed maniac, stark, mechanical thumping, rhythmic, wooden tapping, and a poor Cristal Baschet impersonation.

He even offered to pick up our tab.

I abruptly goaded him away and Trisha pursued his wake, in true band manager glory, leaving us to dissolve in our prodigious amusement, wiping the tears from our eyes. She returned shortly after, face flushed, looking distinctly nonplussed, raving that he was clearly a homosexual. Compy choked on his chicken. DJ’s face twice met with his miso soup.

We had to cancel the rest of our session, due to our consistent failure to starve the laughter from our throats. I can’t say for sure, but had she continued with her attempts to exorcize our demons, I think Doctor J would have shown us all what we were there for. She was bordering on wrathful. Even gave us homework, which did little to dispel our mirth. Though, I couldn’t tell if Hitotsuboshi was laughing or crying, as it is equally improbable for her to do either, and she hadn’t been there to witness the phenomenon. Note to self: Dissuade her from being so damned anti-social in the future. Initiate bribe if necessary. Tulips are good.

Tor was by far the worst. Each time Doctor J directed a question at him, he’d fall backward in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, legs poised straight up in the air, kicking wildly. It was only fitting, as it was his voice that got us there in the first place. For the most part, anyway. Some people simply have no aversion to breaking out in song in the midst of a crowded restaurant.

This is the second time this week I’ve laughed so hard that I’ve thrown up. I’m starting to think there’s something seriously wrong with me.

But honestly … Me … a record deal …

I don’t think he knew Yuki Eiri was hiding under that stupid hat.

He just admired my chopsticks.

Shuichi must think I’ve finally lost it, as I’ve been sitting in the dark, laughing my ass off, for the last half hour.

I’m sort of glad I started doing this again. I forgot how ~~entertaining~~ therapeutic it is.

I need to breathe.

What the ...

Wed, 21 Apr 2004 09:44:50 GMT

Ugh ... I think I feel asleep. Here, that is. Not someplace else.

Dude. The brownies Tatsuha sent me are weird.

I think he put coconut in them or something.

Little brat, Shu-chan, can talk me into anything now, it seems ... It's not supposed to be an engagement ring, it doesn't even look like an engagement ring, yet, somehow, it is. It is, okay? It is. I can deal with that. I think.

Though, right now, I could probably deal with anything.

Well, almost anything ...

Where the hell did I put that ... Ah, forget it. I forgot what I was looking for.

Probably doesn't matter, anyway.

I'm going to go sit outside and look at all the lights.

Those lights could shine like incubated diamonds.

The things I do.

Fri, 16 Apr 2004 20:59:14 GMT

Happy birthday, you little punk.

Happy now?

Why me ...

Fri, 16 Apr 2004 09:03:12 GMT

Why the fuck does that baka want to marry me, anyway?

Okay. Off to bed now. I told him I wouldn't stay up too late working on this pile of shit. I'd rather occupy the same space as him, anyway, than remain here and continue swearing at myself.

Definitely need a break.

Staunch adherence.

Wed, 14 Apr 2004 18:44:00 GMT

I'd might as well scar my unproductive streak with further counts of raging stagnation. Sometimes there isn't enough hours in the day. Still, after everything which has occurred as of late, I feel the need to embrace some form of social aversion.

If I could persuade Mizuki-san to cease considering castration as a viable alternative to not handing over my illustrious, and virtually non-existent, recent work, I may be able to come up with a solution. Until then, there's always Shuichi's birthday ... As much as I despise the thought of hosting some manner of celebration, I can't help but feel the need to do so. If you're willing to clean up your own damned mess, you're permitted to make an appearance.

I still don't know what the hell to get him.

It's nice to have him home again. I have to admit that. It was only when I awoke with his hand on my back that I realized I wasn't dreaming. A time when he was confined to the surface of the couch feels less far off than it did a month ago. I don't know why. You feed off the distance, grow from it, then the moment you skip a meal you find it distressingly natural to awake with your bodies still joined in some way or another. The sand slides out from beneath your feet.

I reiterate. It is of moral imperative to get away from a while, once this birthday crap is over and done with. This course of action is best suited to the preservation of maximum sagacity, by far.

Why is there never any wakame when I need it?

Unshelved.

Mon, 05 Apr 2004 05:15:09 GMT

A frail, whimper of a cry. Sometimes he sings in his sleep. Sometimes his weight shifts, and the rain pours. Sometimes it's all that you have left. And even then, you have to wonder, because it changes everything.

My father located Tatsuha's stash of masturbation material. After they revived him, he revoked said idiot's internet privileges. I don't know how long he'll be out of action for. Probably a while.

Shuichi's father stopped by long enough to inform us that his daughter has now seen fit to disappear. He then returned home in an attempt to console his inconsolable wife. She has yet to physically acknowledge Shuichi's return. He's convinced they both don't care. Maybe they don't.

I finally contacted Seguchi, hoping to bypass any future nagging from Mika. Whatever. I don't fucking care any more. He can talk to me if he wants to, but it's not like I'm getting anything out of it. He has nothing left to offer. His effectiveness as a whole has dissipated. I don't know what's wrong with him, but it's not my problem. I don't need him.

I don't need anyone.

Now to kill this fever, before it kills me. It's a shame, really. I think it's trying to do me a favor.

Nocturne.

Sun, 28 Mar 2004 08:59:21 GMT

There's too much going on to make time for putting it all together right now. Too much. I will, however, state that the brat is doing better than I expected. He finally stopped talking long enough to get some sleep and I sped back to the apartment to shower and pick up a few things. The scent of all the damned flowers gathering in the room was making me nauseous, anyway. Not to mention they have something against lighting up in hospital rooms, for some reason. It's all a little fascist if you ask me.

But it's not over.

It's only beginning.

Freeze frame.

Wed, 24 Mar 2004 21:02:55 GMT

Buried canisters of toxic waste, breathing softly in the dark. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Only it doesn’t work that way. Things have a way of resurfacing, no matter how deeply you bury them. The tiniest fracture permits the gradual release of the very pollutants you’ve sought to conceal, and once the hull ruptures you have no means of repairing it, no method of reversing the damage done. You turn off the lights with the intention of embracing the shadows, only to discover you glow-in-the-dark.

Tiny, sticky droplets administered to cylindrical sources of comfort, set alight and converted to instant placation; condolences whispered in flame.

It plays repeating.

I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t …

I don’t know how to make it stop.

A lack of density.

Mon, 22 Mar 2004 20:38:04 GMT

Trust does not stem from stability. It is those who change us for the better that are most worthy of our reliance. Homeostasis is too easily obtained, and to invoke balance requires only the bare minimum of emotional investment.

The paper is folded at the corner, torn down the middle, held together by cheap, plastic tape. Water spots cluster among sections of words, censoring their existence. Shuichi's writing. Once proud characters are reduced to wobbly strings which follow no discernible rules of any acceptable persuasion, as is evidenced by the lack of punctuation, grammar, and the presence of several words huddled together without spaces, as if they lack the strength to stand apart. The instructions are clear. Printed in basic black and white. Each article of flesh is the equivalent of a monetary function. Hard currency. Our humanity has been replaced by numbers, our souls made trade-able on the stock market. Buy. Sell. Rinse and repeat. We bleed ink instead of blood. On Friday night Shindou Shuichi will be bought and sold, his worth principally defined by a briefcase full of money. Trading closes at midnight.

Buy stock in the human race. Limited-time offer, only. While quantities last. Just don't be surprised when it flounders.

Blood-stained sheets and scattered seeds. Life is but the memoir of a dream.

Hours of meditation; a slow, deliberate rewind of recent events, and it all came down to the koi.

Tatsuha's absolute inefficiency in guarding the contents of the pond from marauding wildlife reminded me of something remotely similar.

Growing up, death became an integral component of life. One could not separate one from the other, as they existed in such a relentlessly interchangeable mode of presentation. My earliest memories of my father consist of him seated beside a recently deceased cadaver, dwelling in an almost trance-like state of meditation. I joined him on numerous occasions, though I never really understood what it was supposed to mean, or what I was supposed to feel. Keeping the dead company consistently failed to en-richen my sense of awareness.

The draining of one of the koi ponds brought about a distinct shift in perspective. Its demise was necessary in order to make room for renovations, and as the water level was gradually reduced, the fish began to asphyxiate. A world they'd never known closed in around them, proving vastly unsympathetic in nature. Their tails swept rapidly through the air as their scales caught the light and reflected it back, prompting their bodies to shine in the sun. I happened upon the sight not knowing why the fish were reacting in such a manner. Tugging at the sleeve of my father's robes, I asked why the aquatic creatures were dancing. He told me they were dying. I pondered the fundamental difference between the two.

Their performance went on for some time before finally drawing to a close, scaly bodies strewn out across the sand, motionless. Defeated.

Transmigration at is finest.

Unlike any other.

Thu, 18 Mar 2004 06:07:12 GMT

Seguchi Tohma was arrested with socially unacceptable quantities of cocaine stowed in the trunk of his car. I imagine Mika will have him out on bail soon. I ... I'm not really worried about that right now.

I've been increasingly paranoid about ensuring my phones (cell and home) are turned on at all times. A week ago it was the direct inverse of this. Dreams will do that to you. This morning, however, I was glad I was able to catch the shrill, almost metallic ringing. I've never enjoyed that sound, especially when it wakes me up, not even when the voice of a beautiful woman is on the other end.

Noriko called. Insisting that she see me. Still more than half-asleep, I wasn't about to protest. It sounded urgent enough. Her husband, being as attractive to her as he is, is a regular pornography connoisseur. Or so I discovered today, when I was brought something I did not expect to see. The photographs I distributed to the press ... Were not half as bad as this. The cover is by far the tamest aspect of it all. As you may have already guessed ...

Like I said, it gets worse. And what do you know ...

Fushigi Nazo: Ah, Shindou-san. Your wild and crazy lifestyle has become the subject of extensive debate. What do you have to say to those people who are questioning your motives for relinquishing your clean-cut image?

Shindou Shuichi: I don't know... I just don't think it is necessary anymore is all. I want to be a different person... grow up. Everyone has wanted me to for so long... it's about time I do so. I’m so tired of being pushed around. If this is what I have to do in order to be taken seriously, then I’m going to do it.

Fushigi Nazo: Would you classify yourself as oppressed?

Shindou Shuichi: Not really... Hey! Wait! You’re fucking kidding me, right? All people have ever done since the day I was born is step all over me. I’m not a doormat, I’m a man! A big, scary man! But I guess it’s my own fault … I allowed it to happen, and it was a natural part of being who I was.

Fushigi Nazo: You mean people haven't tried to shape and mold you in a way that went against who you felt you were deep down inside?

Shindou Shuichi: I don't see it as they have. I have my own will... I can do what I want to do. I'm a little confused at times... but I don't think anyone is doing that... I’m just stupid, I guess.

Fushigi Nazo: [narrows eyes] You wouldn't say you were lead astray? Perhaps by the likes of your employer, Seguchi Tohma?

Shindou Shuichi: Tohma... isn't a bad person. Most of the time. When he is, though, man …

Fushigi Nazo: Even so, there have been a lot of rumors circulating as of late concerning his alleged involvement with the drug trade. Were you aware of this?

Shindou Shuichi: [blinks and shakes his head] No... I wasn't. Who the hell starts those things, anyway? It’s so stupid. I didn’t even know there was rumors like that. Had no clue. It’s true, though! But I guess a lot of people get away with the truth when it appears as little more than a rumor. So as far as the rumors go … no clue! But, yeah, I knew all about the drugs.

Fushigi Nazo: He made no attempt at inflicting his lifestyle upon you?

Shindou Shuichi: .... I don't know. I mean … It’s all a little fuzzy, man.

Fushigi Nazo: You don't know? Did he ever provide you with narcotics of any persuasion or encourage you to take them?

Shindou Shuichi: I don't think so... I don't really remember anything like that happening... I think about it and there’s this cloud … It kind of hovers there, and it’s really big, and round, and it coats everything with this … fuzz.

Fushigi Nazo: [laughs] Well, you might not. That may have been the point.

Shindou Shuichi: [silent and looking away] Why does it matter? Man, your questions really suck.

Fushigi Nazo: [ignores the latter comment] Because. As your employer it should be his job to look out for you, not corrupt you. Do you feel as if you have been corrupted? Either by the likes of Seguchi Tohma or anyone else in your life?

Shindou Shuichi: I feel.... insignificant.

Fushigi Nazo: Why so?

Shindou Shuichi: [wraps an arm around himself] Tohma lashes out at me... a lot of the time. And I think that he's jealous of me... for my success and Yuki... He’s a greedy bastard!

Fushigi Nazo: He's rather successful himself. That seems a little difficult to believe. What sort of relationship does he have with Yuki Eiri for him to be jealous of what you two had going on?

Shindou Shuichi: I don't know... but I think that Tohma saw me as competition. Greedy bastard! Tohma is a bastard. A big, stupid bastard. BAKA!

Fushigi Nazo: Competition in what sense?

Shindou Shuichi: For... Yuki's affection.

Fushigi Nazo: Seguchi Tohma has a thing for Yuki Eiri, then?

Shindou Shuichi: I... think so. You should hear him talk about the guy. You practically have to mop up the drool in his wake. It’s so pathetic. God, that guy has issues. They both do! What a couple of psychopaths. They deserve each other.

Fushigi Nazo: So, jealous of your success, and your relationship, he plotted against you?

Shindou Shuichi: I don't know that. I just know that he probably hated me. He probably doesn't care if I come back. He’s probably too busy shagging Yuki to care!

Fushigi Nazo: It would make sense, wouldn't it?

Shindou Shuichi: I guess so.

Fushigi Nazo: Is it true that you walked out on Yuki Eiri on Valentine's Day?

Shindou Shuichi: I didn't leave him on purpose! I was going to find him a gift! Then, on the way, I encountered a space ship. They used one of their tractor beams on me! I couldn’t move! It was scary stuff! WAH! I thought I was going to die!

Fushigi Nazo: Oh, my. I'd heard you have an over-active imagination, but that's really something.

Shindou Shuichi: I do not! I'm serious! [whimpers and looks away]

Fushigi Nazo: Sure, sure. Moving on ... Why did you really leave him?

Shindou Shuichi: Yuki Eiri is a dork with a small penis.

Fushigi Nazo: Okay, then. Did you enjoy working for NG?

Shindou Shuichi: I guess...

Fushigi Nazo: What do you have to say to all those people who can't figure out why you abandoned your job and your former life?

Shindou Shuichi: I didn't do any of that! I didn’t abandon anything or anyone! I was stolen away! It was the aliens, I told you! THEY PROBED ME!

Fushigi Nazo: ... All right. Do you have any regrets?

Shindou Shuichi: I regret ever putting up with this in the first place. You suck! Everyone sucks! The world is a fucking stupid place and I wish everyone would just shut up and die! Leave me alone! I can do whatever the hell I want, whenever I want! I don’t need a babysitter, and I don’t need anyone telling me what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing with my life! NYAH!

Fushigi Nazo: [laughs] Well, okay. Any last words?

Shindou Shuichi: Can I go eat now?

Fushigi Nazo: That concludes our interview. Thank you for your time, Shindou-san.

I have nothing more to say.

Doctor recommended.

Mon, 15 Mar 2004 23:52:53 GMT

I feel so amazingly dead. Devoid of all feeling. Robbed of all mass. Hollow on the inside. An airless tube.

Everything is still as glass. Trapped on the inside. Brewing in decay.

I've been sleeping off and on since this morning, and I can already feel my strength returning. I've never been so content to just sit and do nothing; an action done without conjuring the vaguest hints of boredom. Quite the opposite, actually. It's the kind of thing where you can't help but find amusement in the fact that you find oblivion to be sufficiently entertaining. I fall asleep without being aware that I was ever awake, and awake with no knowledge of being asleep.

It's exactly what I needed.

Blond, indeed.

SDfajhdasfkladsf.

Mon, 15 Mar 2004 08:30:07 GMT

The most beautiful things are felt when you’re alone.

K-san was over here last night, examining what little evidence I have pertaining to Shuichi’s disappearance. He showed up on my doorstep, jet-lagged, having little or no clue why he was even there. Like a newborn baby. All he knew was that Shuichi was gone and his job was to bring him back. Informing him of the nature of the brat’s absence was left entirely up to me. Thank you for that, by the way, Mika. You know how much I love discussing my personal life with total strangers.

I’ve never seen anyone, Shuichi included, get so drunk off one beer. I don’t know if he’s always like that, or if there was some other factor involved in the equation. It was amusing at first, but it grew highly irritating very quickly. I won’t go into details.

I got up sometime in the afternoon. When I say got up, I don’t mean woke-up, I mean gave up on trying to sleep, resigning to the fact that it was never going to happen without a blow to the head or something equally as effective.

After giving Mika a call I went down to NG, signed for Shuichi’s royalties check, then bumped into the keyboardist for Bad Luck. Literally. Damnit, I can’t remember that kid’s name. Tohma’s nephew. Or is it cousin? I should know. Shuichi invested more than enough effort into complaining about him. Obviously I didn’t care enough at the time. Anyway, the kid fell asleep (passed out? Lost touch with reality? Tripped and fell? I don’t know, fucking pick whichever suits you best) in the middle of the road, and as tempting as it was to leave him there I thought, well, there’s enough roadside pollution in this city as is. Might as well do something. I helped him up and we wound up in a coffee shop in an attempt to appear inconspicuous. I actually ate something, too, and the kid had his first taste of beer. Not that I had anything to do with that.

There was a message from Noriko on my machine when I got back. Don’t know why she didn’t call my cell … It was nice just to hear her voice. There’s something about it. It leaves footprints wherever it goes. Or maybe I’m just really, really drunk.

Thank God for spellchek.

Mitsudo.

Wed, 10 Mar 2004 22:02:30 GMT

Yellowed fingers, sticky with the product of our efforts, worked diligently.

The narrow channel allowed little room for error. Should too much pressure be applied fragile tissue was inclined to burst at the seams, leaving subtle flesh wrenched in defeat, visibly torn. In order to prevent such infractions, one end, poised rigid and absolute, was gingerly eased into the other, waiting, wanting; forcing the skin which enveloped it to expand in accommodation. The process was repeated multiple times, adding to the gummy build-up which accumulated on my fingers in shades of lunar-pale.

He watched as I performed the task, my eyes searching his for the vaguest hint of approval between bouts of intense concentration.

His lips parted and he laughed softly, eyes shining in the light of the mid-day sun. “Eiri-san, it’s supposed to be fun. You look so serious ...”

I stared down at the pallid, viscous substance which shone on my fingertips and frowned slightly, wanting nothing more than to impress him, despite any entertainment factor the activity was intended to hold.

He took the dandelion chain I had been working so meticulously to complete and placed it atop his head, grinning idyllically. “Very nice,” he said softly, disentangling the crown of weeds from his hair and placing it upon mine. “Fit for a king.”

Tainted yellow blossoms, oblivious to their status as an overly persistent thorn in the flesh, appeared regal in demeanor, as if nothing could shake their confidence. He leaned back toward the grass, face turned skyward, plucking a nearby dandelion by the stem. It rested temporarily in his grasp before a swift flick of his thumb sent the flowered cap spiraling through the air, landing dejectedly a foot away.

The stem crashed down beside it.

It becomes integral when you’re fully aware of the fact that you’re not all right to continually convince yourself otherwise. It’s when you actually admit you have a problem that you have something to worry about.

Kaleidoscope mechanics with broken-down wings.

Mon, 08 Mar 2004 04:05:39 GMT

There’s a bruise on the left side of my hip – the result of a sudden collision with the kitchen floor. After enduring so many hours without sleep I was confronted with the temporary suspension of all motor functions and left lying in the same position until opening my eyes again roughly twenty-four hours later. At least I can close my hands fully for the first time since deciding seven years Bad Luck was in order. Typing is a much less disruptive task to perform when unaccompanied by shrill stabs of protest.

If venturing outside these walls was classifiable as unappetizing previous to exercising the right of every public figure to feed the media surreptitious lies; it now resides in the realm of the totally inedible. I can’t even buy a pack of cigarettes without bumping into at least one woman I’d associated with pre-Shuichi. Spurning their advances is adequate ego-deflating fodder to encourage them to launch into explicit-laden tirades about the nature of my sexuality. Not that it bothers me. Being called a fucking fag by an ignorant whore is not nearly as condemning as it may seem.

I spoke with Tohma for a while yesterday. I wonder if it helped as much as he made it seem it did, or if he was merely attempting to satiate me. I know now what he has to do, and I feel as if my hands are bound behind my back. There’s nothing I can do to make this any easier for him. I can’t detach the cords that are wrapped around my own neck, let alone his. But at least …

Our encounter left me feeling better than I thought it would. There was just one thing left for me to do.

The only light escaping the Shindou residence filtered through the pane of glass which separated Shuichi’s room, left preserved in the exact state of anarchy and disarray it had always personified, from the night air. Mr. Shindou must have been sitting in the dark, for shortly after I knocked the door was forced open. He knew of my intention to speak with the youngest Shindou and agreed with reluctant to release her from her temporary prison. I took the opportunity to inform him that, despite what he may have seen or heard, my concern for his son was unwavering. Mrs. Shindou was physically absent from the picture, though her cries could be heard from any position in the house. The droning, continual extraction of raw, unadulterated lament was tedious at first, but the noise grew so well accustomed to the ears that its existence was readily ignored.

Maiko-chan and I went back to my apartment, and I explained to her as best I could what both her and her family should have been told from the beginning. I hope now she understands, and will refrain from harboring any further ill-will toward those who are helping to bring her brother back, even after the rather unfortunate incident with Mika-san.

At least one of us has bad aim.

Wherein Yuki spamms your frienbds list.

Wed, 03 Mar 2004 08:57:11 GMT


Rimming is love.

HAH.

BEst thing I;ve senee allll daaay.

Nevermore.

Wed, 03 Mar 2004 04:56:54 GMT

“Yuki-san … there’s no smoking in here.”

I raise my eyes over the darkened rounds of my sunglasses and glare. The cigarette is instantly forgotten. Thin strands of smoke wander upward, mingling with the rubble and the ashes – components of invisible barriers caving in around us.

Voices hush, tongues stowed carefully away in the confines of their mouths. Staring eyes seem unblinking in their intensity. Critical. Hungry wolves watching, waiting for the deer to slip.

The desire to get this over and done with brings order to a wandering train of though. I recite the words just as I wrote them.

“Shindou Shuichi is a distant memory. Our short-lived and ill-conceived association has dissolved entirely. The futile threads that once linked us together have been cut. His recent behavior has been declared nothing short of appalling, but knowing him as well as I do, I can safely say it is utterly unsurprising. One can only expect so much from someone of such little resolve and a truly mangled perspective of the world around them. It is not, however, my place to judge him or his recent transgressions. Whatever he does or does not do – I could care less. It means nothing to me. He means nothing to me. The shocking transition implied by his actions may seem deplorable to some. I can guarantee you that there is nothing truly wrong with him. He is little more than a typical teenager in dire need of learning from his tragic mistakes. There are those who certainly never saw it coming. It just goes to show how incapable people are of ascertaining character traits and hidden aspects of an individual’s personality which render them prone to forsaking normality for deviation. People do not always change overnight. The world changes for them.”

His coffee mug is exactly where he last left it.

“Yuki-san!” A sea of hands, accompanied by blinding flashes of light. I remind myself why I am doing this when much less obtrusive options are readily available, trying not to fall victim to the nagging suggestion that it was just a stupid idea after all. It doesn’t matter. I have to try. It is the only thing I can do.

A reporter with short brown hair raises the first question. She looks vaguely familiar. An image comes to mind - her legs parted; back arched in a fit of carnal fervor. I smirk faintly. It was the first time in days I have been able to focus on something other than the events that now define this chapter of my life. As expected, the reprieve was fleeting.

“What indication did you have that Shindou-san was moving in a downward spiral?” she asks, the tone of her voice lacking any particular charm without its spastic, orgiastic zeal.

“Very little,” I reply numbly, trying to sound blatantly unconcerned, despite the circumstances. It was the only way. “He pulled away from me so suddenly. There was nothing I could have done, even if I’d wanted to.” Shatter his hope. A quick, decisive blow to the temple. My only hope is that he’ll hear this – that they’ll wish to imprint upon him the fact that he is neither wanted nor cared about, allowing the sound of my voice to destroy something their hands cannot. “The sun has set, and not a star reigns in the sky.” Most people thought it strange. Something random and weird, all too typical of a writer whose former lover has become the subject of newfound notoriety due to the mass circulation of photographs which diminish any perception of the boy as a wholesome, albeit slightly off-kilter, youth. The truth was I’d said those very words to Shuichi once before. There was more to it than that, of course, but I won’t get into the details. Sometimes it pays to say things you later regret. If he could hear them now, I know it might help. My mission is complete.

“Did you make any attempt to correct his behavior?” asks another. The collective noise generated by the populace of the room decreases in severity, though it may just be my ears.

“I have better things to do than baby-sit an inconsequential brat. Attempting to persuade him to rationalize his behavior would do nothing but incite his spite. Some things cannot be taught. They can only be learned.”

I’d recited a hundred different answers to an extensive menagerie of questions over the course of the night. I was glad to have done so, and the sunglasses concealed the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep for more hours than I care to count.

“How has this impacted your personal life?”

I can’t write, save for this crap. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.

“Not at all. It makes no difference. I am no longer associated with him. His current actions have no affect on me.”

It feels surprisingly comfortable feeding candy-coated lies to greedy children. They gobble it down without questioning its origin. Though, in my case, it’s rare that I should be willing to speak of such things at all. No one seems to take this into consideration.

“You don’t blame yourself?”

“No. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that he’s an easily impressionable boy who has yet to grow-up and learn the first thing about how to conduct himself in an appropriate manner. I’m sure he derives some sadistic sense of amusement out of all this. To say he’s doing harm to himself and those he has been associated with only enhances his enjoyment.”

More sticky-handed acceptance. There is, at least, a degree of honestly imbedded within my reply. For once, it seems, I am not at fault. I have enough guilt to fuel as is.

The questions flow freely with my answers growing increasingly contrite, my reluctance to continue subjecting myself to this demonstrated clearly by the tone of my voice and the accumulation of cigarette butts ground out before me. It was just as well that someone had fetched an ashtray, though I could have done without it. Their interest in probing Shuichi’s motivation for becoming the reluctant scandal he has wanes with my refusal to satiate them. The topic turns to me, and only me. How is the new book coming along? What is it about? I answer as enigmatically as possible. The book, they are curtly informed, is coming along on schedule. I can imagine my editor shutting off her television in disgust. The production of text has halted. I’m stuck shortly after the point where the protagonist regains consciousness with his wife’s severed hand still joined with his own.

They file out quickly. A flunky comes to collect the ashtray.

He’s surprised that I smoke menthols.

...

Tue, 02 Mar 2004 05:18:03 GMT

I think I spoke to her for over an hour and the entire conversation sounded as if it was conducted underwater. She instructed me to avoid turning on the television at all costs. It reminded me of a conversation I'd had with Mika just days before. My initial reaction was to do otherwise. I resisted. Later, I managed to catch the words press conference, which I have the feeling I'm going to have to deal with tomorrow, whether I like it or not. This means I should probably sleep, because if I suddenly ceased breathing entirely and sat in the sun for two hours I'd look pretty much the same way I do now.

Though I imagine I'd feel a hell of a lot better.

Like a suicidal avalanche.

Mon, 01 Mar 2004 06:10:16 GMT

[[Friends only.]]

I didn’t know whether to be mollified or horrified with myself for deriving even the remotest sense of satisfaction from something so gruesome. The fact was that I couldn’t help but feel something akin to relief, even as my hands shook.

I repeated the contents of the letter with mechanical fervour, hoping to uncover some other explanation for all this - a dream, a hallucination, a short stint with an alternate reality.

Shindou Shuichi is being held for ransom. The terms of his release are fastidious. First of all, “any mention of the true nature of his disappearance in the media or any other such communication outlet will result in a swift termination of all previous agreements and arrangements. Shindou will be executed without delay.” I don’t think I need to express this in simpler terms.

Funds from the following are to be produced and delivered two and a half weeks from now. Further instructions will be made available at that time.

Uesugi Eiri: 27,400,000 JPY
Seguchi Tohma: 54,700,000 JPY
NG Records: 27,400,000 JPY

There was a roll of film with the letter. I have been directed to anonymously submit it to any faction of the press by noon tomorrow. There’s also an envelope for Seguchi’s eyes only. I’ll let him deal with that accordingly.

I’m going out.

Don’t know when I’ll be back.

Weakened and yet still writing.

Fri, 27 Feb 2004 19:30:46 GMT

A crack of thunder punctured the pervading silence and my hands crept over my head, elbows bent back, forearms pressed against my ears as if to guard them from further assault.

"Eiri-san ..." A warm smile, riddled with a sense of comfort that tore my unease out from underfoot and tucked it out of sight. "Come, sit next to me."

A boyish, sheepish grin. Arms falling to my sides, I rose to my feet, book in hand, placing my weight upon the cushion next to him. The soft cloth, torn at one corner, sagged in protest. My glasses had worked their way toward the end of my nose and dangled there precariously, threatening to jump. Intending to right their stance, I raised a hand, only to have it brushed gingerly aside.

The point of his finger met with the frame of my glasses, forcing them back toward the center of my forehead. It lingered there even after its mission was completed, and our eyes met. Soft and muddy, doe-like in appearance. He had the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Eyes that swallowed the weight of the world.

The sharp crash that followed sounded dull to my ears.

Words only ever mean as much as you want them to. Their inherent significance is contingent upon the amount of faith you're willing to inject into accepting the authenticity of their verisimilitude.

Tohma must have awoken at some point during the night and turned off the lights. I forced my eyes open, exposing the world one fragment at a time, confronting the subdued, early morning darkness of the room, awash with grey scale shades that huddled in the corners. A single strip of light fell across the floor. The steadiness of his breathing dictated that he was still effectively engaged in a well-needed and much-deserved tryst with the realm of unconsciousness. However troubled he may have been, the placid expression on his face gave little indication.

I flexed my fingers, regretting the action immediately afterward, extending them outward once more as I waited for the shrill pain to depart from the foundation of my flesh. The dull, systematic throbbing which captivated my temples with searing pin-pricks was all too familiar. I passed my wrists over my eyes, rubbing them wearily. They felt swollen and disinclined to remain open for longer than necessary. My entire body was subject to an intense, all-consuming ache that started with a cramp at the ends of my toes and ended with the relentless pounding, rooted in the depths of my head.

I felt more eroded than I had in years. As robbed of strength as I was caring. Yet for each thread of malcontent that wound its way around my neck, like strands of brittle, constricting wire, I felt less like a prisoner in a cell of my own construction.

For the first time it was okay to step over the line, and I felt no apprehension in doing so.

I miss the brat. I really do. I just hate admitting it.

I sat up with some difficulty and looked around.

The blood had dried into the sheets over the course of the night.

The silence might break.

Wed, 25 Feb 2004 21:20:24 GMT

Have you ever seen someone so utterly fascinating that you can't help but fixate on something as meaningless as the manner in which they turn their head? Not for a single moment can you hope to focus on anything else. Not even if the world disappeared beneath your feet and you were caught drifting idly in a field of space. Though, even if you could, you wouldn't want to. This is how it was. He entranced me from the beginning. He stole the eyes from my head and glued them to his every footstep.

I am drowning in an unmarked crate.

I can remember the rain splashing softly against the sidewalk, feeding into the cracks, flooding into the gutters and down the streets. The walls were always cold, like winter driven to the brink of madness. My feet would hit the hardwood floors and echo back in time. Even the air felt different then, and the darkest, draftiest corners still felt like home.

Watching him was like reaching into the hidden tunnels of my mind and gazing upon the fragments of a long forgotten dream. Surreal. Even when he knocked something over, reinforcing that he was only human. Only human.

The umbrella was righted and he grinned maladroitly, moving slowly - as if he'd only just awoken from a year-long slumber. Lethargic. Hung-over. Silently, I slipped out the door, and a pregnant silence hung overhead, masking our lips. We walked, hands in our pockets, and still our words continued to eluded us, running circles around our tongues and leaving us with an awkward, stilted silence. Our language lost to us, we shuffled stiffly down the street, like robots just released from wooden crates.

His over-sized coat oscillated behind him and crept off his shoulders as if it was afraid to touch him. Again I wondered how he came across such an oddity, so reminiscent of something someone down on their luck would fish from the maw of a thrift-store dumpster. Ever so often he would raise his arms above his head and his sleeve would sneak down to his elbow, exposing his bare skin.

The calm had gone on long enough; it was muggy and oppressive, feeding on our souls like an ethereal parasite.

"... Where are we going?"

He said I was unfalteringly inquisitive. Like a puppy. Or a sponge. Something that has to know everything about everything and forcibly insert its nose into every little nook and cranny as if searching for something it doesn't even realize it's looking for.

Fold me into a million pieces. Thank you for puncturing my dream.

Life is like a doll. Fragile. Breakable. Fun to hug, but even more fun to throw across the room and bang against the furniture. It's disposable, easily replaced by a newer and better version without the scars of age and bitterness of knowing that some damned kid no longer needs you.

Its expression never wavers until the porcelain caves in under pressure, sucking everything backward, losing it to the hollows.

It pulls you down, smothers you beneath the pitch, sutured and murmured; you lie in silence - a living, breathing product of social design. It surrounds you. And like a rainbow drowning in a vat of motor oil, you are wrapped in the arms of darkness.

It won't happen again.

What if this is all you ever were?

Let it go. It's just some aerial disease.

I knew freedom once. Tasted it. Held it in my arms.

In the end, we all snap like fallen twigs.

I( cant’s tooype.

YGuh.

I htate tathis

Stumbling for words.

Tue, 24 Feb 2004 20:28:44 GMT

I finally managed to crawl out of bed, despite my better judgment. Should have stayed there, by all accounts.

The timing of this really fucking bothers me.

It ...

It's only a coincidence.

But, then ...

Oh, forget it. There's nothing I can do, anyway.

Except wait.