Sure, I understand why people become vegetarians or even full-on vegans. Once you’ve looked into the sad eyes of an innocent lamb just before it’s led, together with its tiny friends and the rest of its loudly bleating family, to a fully automated slaughter line, where it’s torn apart before the wide-open eyes of its loved ones, you start thinking differently about the piece of meat on your plate. I, too, tried to join the cult of supposedly better people. With my eating-disordered girlfriend, I grazed for months on broccoli, nuts, and hummus, until I dragged myself, starving, into a Burger King, where a kind employee revived me with cheap animal scraps before releasing me back into the wild. The relationship ended shortly afterward.
For years after that, I turned into a temporary vegetarian whenever I came across one of those cruel activists videos shot in slaughterhouses. Clips where newly hatched chicks went straight into the grinder because they weren’t the expected sex, or squealing pigs were beaten to death with shovels simply because the workers were bored at three in the morning. Meat has never been cheaper or more widely available, but it has also never been so low in quality. One food scandal follows the next. Who can still bite into a sausage, a steak, or a kebab without feeling guilty? And yet I keep eating meat. Why? Because I like the taste. And because my body screams for it if I deny it for a week.
When I once asked a Japanese friend at dinner why so few Japanese people are vegetarians, he calmly replied, Because everything has a soul. What he meant was that every meal brings suffering to some living being, whether it can scream loudly or feel pain in ways we can barely grasp scientifically or socially. The future isn’t about total abstinence but increased awareness. The era of cheap, mass-produced meat must end, but a balanced diet with high-quality foods should be possible. Yes, I try to reduce my meat consumption and focus more on fresh fish, crunchy nuts, and crisp vegetables. But a good organic steak or a juicy cheeseburger from my favorite shop down the street is something I still can’t, and won’t, give up.
Let’s get straight to it: Monster Musume is hardly the deepest, smartest, or even remotely most elegant anime under the sun. Quite the opposite. Its utterly idiotic story could fit on a cummed on cookie, the dialogue mostly consists of yelling, scolding, and moaning, and the artwork looks as if it came straight from some seventh-rate hentai dating sim made by obscure Eastern-European hobby developers that Steam throws at you in ten-packs for pocket change. Monster Musume is one of those typical harem anime already told a thousand times, in which a perpetually nosebleeding protagonist is pursued by around ten hopelessly horny girls. Only this time they’re sexy monster women with larger or smaller breasts who urgently want to be mounted right now. Nice.
Three years before the start of Monster Musume, the state revealed that mythical beings such as centaurs, mermaids, and harpies are real and launched a cultural-exchange program. Since then, these creatures have lived with ordinary families like exchange students or au pairs, though under strict rules. Humans, for example, may not mate with them. Enter Kimihito, a typical everyday Japanese fuck boy. When Kuroko Smith, a coordinator of the program and a female copy of a certain agent from The Matrix, accidentally delivers the frightened lamia Miia to his door, he lets her stay. Soon more monster girls arrive, some dumped on him, others forcing their way in, and chaos worsens once he’s told he must marry one of them as part of a legal trial.
In Monster Musume, constantly exposed secondary sex characteristics fly at the viewer from every direction – and often straight into Kimihito’s face, prompting tears, whining, or nosebleeds, usually all at once. Beyond that, the show offers little narrative depth, but that hardly matters. It convinces neither with moving storytelling nor clever twists nor artistic refinement. The show aims for one thing: Fun. Anyone who has ever wanted to see an enraged horse girl with big, wet breasts take down a motorcycle thief will feel right at home. It never gets smarter, yet rarely sinks lower – and in our unpredictable world, that’s worth something. For some it’s social satire, for others colorful fap material. As Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel might say: Why not both?
I’ve decided to use Japan as the thematic foundation for my upcoming bachelor’s thesis in design. How exactly I want to approach this is still somewhat uncertain. At first, I intended to shoot a documentary about the colorful underground cultures in the Land of the Rising Sun. Cultures permeated by depression, anxiety about the future, and a kind of resentment toward society by their followers. I wanted to cover everything from eccentric horror manga and underage idol groups to rape porn that only narrowly falls under artistic freedom, and speak with pop-culture experts about whether Japan’s aging population might eventually cause these scenes to die out. However, this plan ultimately struck me as somewhat too overambitious. I should probably be a little more modest.
Then I remembered that my professors at the Japanese university where I studied had always encouraged me to use my projects to explore stories drawn from my own life, my own feelings, and my own experiences. Because it gives an intention much more soul. At the very least, I know that I want to address Japan and my time here in my bachelor’s thesis. And I want to take this chance to connect the project with my love for Tokyo. For when I close my eyes and think of Japan, I see not only the brightly lit streets of Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Akihabara, plastered with neon signs, but also the countless secrets hidden within them – secrets waiting to be uncovered and told.
Since I now at least understand that I want to portray Tokyo at night in film for my thesis, I will spend the next three weeks in Japan’s capital, preferably venturing out after sunset to wander through temples, parks, and towering buildings in search of my own story that I want to bring to life by film. For this purpose, I have booked a bed at a quite cheap capsule hotel in the Sumida district and will dive into the always loudly pulsing metropolis from there. What exactly will come out of all this, I still don’t know. But sometimes I simply have to throw all my previous plans overboard and take a courageous leap of faith in order to transform adventures into stories.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and one almost essential question spins endlessly in my head: What if...? While others quietly masturbate late at night or are kindly taken to the seventh heaven by their partners, drifting off with a faint smile before waking refreshed to expand their successful résumés, I spend the night thinking. What if I’d made tea instead of coffee? What if I’d been nicer to the woman at the train kiosk yesterday? What if I had chosen Spotify over Apple Music? Moved to Hamburg instead of Berlin? Confessed my love to the cute girl next door? Read more books? Not cheated on ex-girlfriends? Not been lazy? Not been an asshole? What if I hadn’t spent so much time pondering what might have been?
In the dark, my thoughts race like a rollercoaster, taking every possible route to show me how much better, happier, and more successful I might have been if I’d tried harder at some random moment in my life. My career would be bigger. My girlfriend prettier. My house larger. My existence more valuable. Old companions I haven’t seen for years appear in my mind, replaying moments where I might have made terrible mistakes. I kissed the stupid Anne instead of kind Zoe. I spat on Kevin in seventh grade. I ignored advice, got drunk in the park, let my ego decide. Life becomes a farce when nothing matters, yet everything works. Relationships fail, money is fleeting, friends vanish – but what if one day, nothing comes?
The worst part is that I don’t know what would have happened. Would life have been better if I confessed to the girl next door? Would we now have two kids and a dog in a suburban townhouse? Or would we have crashed our car in a fight? Would life have been better if I hadn’t spat on Kevin? Would we still be friends, meeting twice a year at our old bar? Or would classmates have tormented me for years, leaving me trembling at the word “school”? Would life have been better if I’d treated those who mattered to me with more respect? No matter how much I try, this endless rattle doesn’t stop. I lose myself, and my thoughts keep running: What if...?
My time here in Kumamoto is now coming to an end. For a full year I have been an exchange student at the Faculty of Design of Japan’s Sojo University, exploring new ideas in both artistic and technical fields. Day after day, I wandered the two campuses that rise above the city, learning about typography, painting, and graphic design in lecture halls, tinkering with Arduinos and Raspberry Pis in the computer club, and studying Japanese in the library with friends. I’ve met so many wonderful people, traveled across half the country with them, and through them gained deep insights into a different kind of society – glimpses that remain forever closed to most travelers. It’s hard to express how grateful I am to have lived through these colorful adventures.
I came to see my year in Kumamoto as my own little Persona game, determined to experience every side of this city. That’s why I dragged my friends to every restaurant, café, izakaya, karaoke bar, shop, park, cinema, and exhibition Kumamoto had to offer. I wanted to taste every dish, see every movie, and join every festival. I even felt a quiet pride as I rushed past tourists to complete my own personal missions at city hall, the post office, or the housing agency – tasks usually reserved for locals. I walked the narrow path along the river through all four seasons, from the first cherry blossom to the final snowflake. And on every single day, there was something new waiting to be discovered.
Of course, I’m sad to leave, to part from so many people with whom I shared my days, my worries, my hopes, and dreams. Yet I’m deeply grateful for every moment I was allowed to spend here. Kumamoto and its people will always hold a quiet place in my heart. This year at the far end of the world has shown me that I can find my way anywhere, make friends everywhere, and keep gathering new goals, ideas, and insights. I’ve grown in Kumamoto, and that growth has prepared me for whatever adventures may come next. Wherever life takes me, I’ll carry this place within me. Farewell, Kumamoto – and perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again. At least, I hope so.
What Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or Mariah Carey might be in Western realms, that is what women named Hikaru Utada, Namie Amuro, and Seiko Matsuda are in Japan. Grand shows, powerful voices, and an abundance of feminine energy – this is how the Far Eastern audience knows and loves its female superstars. They dazzle with charisma, glamour, and emotional performances that blend strength with elegance. These artists are more than singers, they are icons who have shaped the image of Japanese pop culture for decades, inspiring countless fans across generations. Their concerts fill arenas, their songs dominate the charts, and their influence stretches far beyond Japan’s borders, defining what it means to be a pop legend in Asia’s ever-evolving music scene.
Whoever ventures into this alternative glittering world will not escape it easily. Suddenly they find themselves clicking through one fascinating J-Pop playlist after another, trying to sing along with Arashi, Morning Musume, and Akina Nakamori using fragments of learned words like 世界, こころ, and 愛してる. Yet no one reaches the heights of one particular artist – the uncrowned, immortal, and one true queen of Japanese pop music: Ayumi Hamasaki. With more than twenty studio albums and numerous best-of compilations, Ayumi Hamasaki stands among the greatest stars the Land of the Rising Sun has ever produced. After a brief detour into hip-hop, her name alone now evokes admiration and nostalgia, symbolizing an entire era of musical brilliance and emotional expression.
Albums such as A Song for ××, LOVEppears, and Duty have sold millions of copies and, thanks to file sharing and passionate CD importers, have found many fans abroad. International audiences discovered her partly through the popularity of Japanese animated series like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Ranma ½, which brought attention to Asian singers and pop culture. Born in Fukuoka, Ayumi Hamasaki sang and wrote her way into the radios and hearts of listeners with self-written and often self-composed songs like Voyage, Boys & Girls, and Dearest. She is the Queen of J-Pop. Her songs will outlast time itself, and her passion for music has inspired a new generation of Japanese artists such as Aimyon, Yoasobi, and Kenshi Yonezu.
When I was twelve and scratched the naked, hairy ass of my first so-called girlfriend in our homemade hideout, somewhere under cardboard boxes, rat poison, and industrial pallets, I knew what the rest of my life would look like. She wasn’t one of those normal girls who plastered their faces with makeup, ran to pedicures, and shaved their legs, but my best buddy – for years. We jumped like Power Rangers over sacks of earth, beat each other senseless in the woods, and late at night watched the first soft-core porn on some shabby TV channel, together with her little brothers, to laugh at her own flesh and blood and shove them whooping down the stairs. I admired Mara through and through. She was my first tomboy.
A few years later we had sex for the first time. She had just come up from waiting tables in her mother’s place, and we talked all night, about wild dreams, the future, and pop music. With one motion I slid the yellow panties off her and burrowed into her hairy crotch. A friend dozed grinning beside us, the full moon poured in – how romantic. A year later she confessed she was lesbian, had wanted Nina and Elena to hug her at kindergarten nap time. That didn’t stop me from loving buddy-type girls. I never liked annoying girly girls, though I dated some. Girls with brains, directness, and a taste for rough were more my type. Boxers not thongs, bloody knees from skateboards instead of burns from tanning salons.
I wanted girls who could push through, were cheeky, had opinions, and would rather screw life than be screwed by it. The best times were with women more buddy than girlfriend. Drinking, coking through summer nights, then taking them on the balcony while Muse blasted and the city melted. Small, firm breasts with puffy nipples, as if God chose their sex at the last second – I was grateful. They’d poop next door mid-sex, come back grinning with a salami sandwich, keep going, snap photos, send them to another buddy. That’s true love, far from Disney. I hope to fall for a loud, freckled tomboy. A life of sex, beer pong, fights, sunsets, Slipknot, skinny-dips, and that grin when you’re fucking your best friend.
A misaligned photograph of the future, born in the fever of Japan’s growth in the sixties and seventies. Traditions, quiet and fine, threaded through with wabi-sabi as an inner pulse, keep time beneath the noise. Buildings that refuse to shed their rust, that keep a film of dull gray on the fingers, stand as patient witnesses. A floating consolation, and a smell of open country, move down the lanes and linger in the alleys. The story of Millennium Parade unfolds in a forked-off Tokyo, grown out of this zone – our shared room of side-by-side living. The city has laid aside its earlier addiction to polish and noiseless urbanity. Instead, it sets out toward a strange, beautiful, absurdly ideal future metropolis, nourished by disorder and yet leaning toward transcendence.
The self-titled debut album by the Japanese music group Millennium Parade has been on constant rotation for me since release. After all, the record is packed only with absolute bangers from start to finish. Bon Dance? Slammer. Fly With Me? Slammer. Familia? Slammer. The only tricky part is explaining the genre, because Millennium Parade simply hurl everything they have, pop, hip-hop, electronic, dance, rock, funk, jazz, and rap, into a single pot, give it a hard stir, and then fling the multicolored mash against the wall to see what dazzles. It splatters, clings, and somehow composes a picture that feels both chaotic and deliberate, a collage that swings from sugar rush to steel-edged groove, music that keeps its playfulness even while sounding engineered with obsessive care. Unskippable.
Millennium Parade persuade not only with modern songs for modern people, but also with a visual presentation rarely seen. The videos and live appearances by the collective surrounding Daiki Tsuneta of King Gnu overflow with off-the-wall ideas and meticulous craft, mixing animation, stage design, and camera play into a kind of kinetic theater. Every frame feels engineered, yet the work breathes. Spectacle never strangles the spark. Their aesthetic extends the music’s argument. The future can be unruly and tender at once, a city of images that invites touch. And I can hardly wait to finally hold the new record from this Japanese collective in my own hands, whenever it may choose to appear. Because nothing would make my heart happier than waking in a neon-soaked, alternate-timeline cyberpunk Tokyo.
By now I had long since resigned myself to the fact that for months I could neither really laugh nor cry. I had degenerated into a feelingless phantom in this endlessly same world, drifting from party to party, from person to person, and yet no longer truly taking part. In life. Everything had decayed into the same everyday mush. No matter how hard I searched. And then I sit there and, in a single instant, everything changes. I do not see it. No explosion, no scream, no ending. Nothing. Only me and my head and some switch inside it that flipped. Suddenly. And that forces me to burst out of the ruined normality. Out into the night air, out of the loop that had me on repeat.
Then I stagger through the city with tears in my eyes. Not because of love. Or death. Or loss. Or wounded pride. Simply because, from one second to the next, something in me burned that I had long filed under “Lost.” I can’t cope anymore, don’t understand, wanted with all my might to cling to what was breaking me – and that now was gone. Drunk and confused I call my friends, demand an order, a watchword, some kind of reason. But no one can give me that, because no one recognizes the problem, neither I nor they nor anyone. What is my problem? So at five in the morning I write pseudo-depressive texts I want to toss, MacBook and all, into a dumpster and rip to shreds.
No playlist on earth can calm me at this forgotten hour, and so I have nothing left but to wait. Whether I’m perhaps just imagining it all. Playing at drama. Too much beer. Or too much human. Or too much darkness, looking at me with a question and shrugging toward the next sunrise. That, surely, will know what to do. Like a sad madman I now linger in my bed, rocking slightly back and forth. With this colorlessness in my gaze. Waiting for whatever may come. A sentence, a piece of information that will turn me into a furious fireball. So that at least I can still take part. In the destruction of my little universe. For in a single instant everything changes.
I finally watched Shinichiro Ueda’s 2017 film One Cut of the Dead the other day. And what can I say? It is, as anyone who has seen it can attest, absolutely fantastic. The big problem is that I really shouldn’t reveal anything about it, not even the genre, because otherwise I strip away all the fun. Only this much: One Cut of the Dead opens in a run-down, abandoned warehouse where a small film crew is in the middle of shooting a zombie picture... But of course it’s not an ordinary warehouse. Rumor has it that military experiments were carried out here... on human beings! Then, as if from nowhere, real zombies suddenly appear and terrorize the crew. A bloody struggle for survival begins...
What sounds like off-the-shelf junk from the recycling bin turns into one of the most entertaining indie films in recent years, half an hour in. Born in 1984, the same year as me, Shinichiro Ueda succeeds in playing with the audience’s expectations and, in one fell swoop, swings the mood of the entire film around so abruptly that I no longer know what’s up, what’s down, or where front and back even are. The shift isn’t just clever, it’s brazen, gleeful, and meticulously prepared. Choices that first read as mistakes reassemble into punch lines and reveals. From that point on, the movie’s confidence is unmistakable, and I watch, grinning, as it keeps tightening screws I didn’t realize were there.
One Cut of the Dead lives on the goofs, mishaps, and blunders during the shoot, and on the fact that, while watching those legendary thirty minutes for the first time, I was thinking exactly the things that later suddenly make sense. That some scenes run far too long, that the actors often stare off in arbitrary directions, that the action sometimes unfolds entirely outside the frame. I’d say that, deep down, One Cut of the Dead is a film about family – for reasons that, of course, only reveal themselves at the end. At the very least, Ueda’s work is full of surprises and grows not only funnier by the minute but also more coherent. If you want to escape the same old mush for nearly two hours, this zombie splatterfest has you covered. Don’t stop shooting!
For exactly one year now I have been living in Japan. I have a Japanese phone number, a Japanese bank account, a Japanese social security number. As a student at the art faculty of a Japanese university, I have met many local creatives as well as wonderful people from all over the world who, like me, are trying to find their place in this demanding society. When I’m not sitting in lecture halls, studios, and cafeterias having my broken Japanese put to the test, my life plays out by day between cinemas, galleries, and museums, and by night between izakaya, karaoke bars, and supermarkets that stay open twenty-four hours a day, on nearly every corner of the city, bright and humming.
When I look back on this year, I see myself walking with friends along the river lined with freshly blossoming cherry trees, heading to the next spring festival. It’s the same river that led us in summer to the fireworks, in autumn to the castle, and in winter to the Christmas market, and where on quiet days white egrets basked beside turtles looking bored. In the park the frogs croaked, in the brook, patterned koi raced each other, between the laundromat and the fast-food place I told the girl with the roguish smile and the short, thick, jet-black hair that I liked her. 好きだよ! still echoes through the cold night, before the brightly lit temple on the hill called us. 付き合ってください!
Even after this year, Japanese society remains a book with seven seals to me. Somewhere between well-meant politeness and militant rule-conformity, people operate day in, day out with the same mixture of a desire for individuality and a fear of otherness. The Japanese are a close-knit and perfectly synchronized collective that, up to a certain point, tolerates outside influences with interested curiosity and at the same time rejects everything that isn’t through and through Japanese. This cultural instinct for self-preservation hasn’t diminished my love for Japan in the least, for at every moment here I have felt welcome. And I can hardly wait to see what adventures still await me in this fascinating country in the months and years ahead.
I recently watched the documentary Our Lies and Truths about the rise and downfall of the Japanese girl group Keyakizaka46. After all, in recent years Techi and her comrades have been the idols I listened to most. Songs like Silent Majority, Ambivalent, and especially 黒い羊 still play on endless loop for me today, and the accompanying music videos are performative masterworks. Yasushi Akimoto, who has been responsible for acts such as AKB48, Onyanko Club, and Iz*One and also created Keyakizaka46, is not for nothing Japan’s most gifted and at the same time most hated producer. Some people say Yasushi Akimoto destroyed the Japanese music industry, and I agree, noted Agency for Cultural Affairs Commissioner Shunichi Tokura in cutting words.
The most striking thing about Keyakizaka46, first sister group to Nogizaka46, once slated to debut as Toriizaka46, and already missing two members before its first show, is neither the music nor the choreography, and certainly not the powerful man behind them. It is the force with which their center, Yurina Hirate, seized the group’s inner climate and public face in no time, then year by year slipped toward madness, until, after much back-and-forth, she finally announced her departure in 2020. Soon after, the band renamed itself Sakurazaka46, unable to cope with the hole left by Yurina Techi Hirate, who had joined at fourteen. The 2020 label-made film Lies and Truths depicts sustained decay – depression, burnout, and total overextension from Techi, and a strange mix of envy, fury, and admiration among her colleagues.
Techi was a prodigy, and no one could handle it – least of all herself. In interviews, former members recall Yurina Hirate’s impact and search for when everything went wrong. No one knows what turned her, hailed as a reborn Momoe Yamaguchi and, at fifteen, among the year’s most attractive idols, from a cheerful girl into someone alone and apathetic in dark corners. Only she does, and she won’t say. Maybe someday, she hinted in a 2020 radio interview. Even in the film she appears in fragments: She dances, sometimes falls, draws gazes, then implodes, sobbing I can’t! before backstage staff force on a new costume. Keyakizaka46 sang of youth, rebellion, and being different – messages that pierced schoolgirls and traumatized outsiders. What remains is brief brilliance, lingering remnants, and a restless soul seeking happiness elsewhere.
We’re in a hotel lobby at the counter, staring holes into the air. The girl is Irina, buxom. The guy is Erik, important. I’m Marcel and want to go home. But that’s impossible. Business appointments are essential. Instead of telling Irina that tonight around nine I’d like to take her anally in her single room, and stapling my bank details to Erik’s forehead so he can wire me his inheritance, we must perform society’s dance of dances. I hate small talk. I hate the your-life-is-irrelevant-to-me, nice-weather smile with dull looks trained to keep us from yawning and pouncing. I hate most people. So why this? Dogs sniff rears, humans edge closer through gab. Less fun. Imagine the hours we’d save by going straight to the point.
Rudimentary chatter is a sliver of German jabber. Exchanging information matters, your aunt’s cute dog does not. Screaming at someone because he dropped my ice cream matters, Love Island does not. If I drunkenly drop before a girl to say I love her and that she has the most beautiful knee hollows, that matters. Tweets don’t. Still, I’m a maestro of double standards. I’d elbow to the summit, yet I can’t stand people who try it on me. If you want something, know my favorite color, wax about Munich in summer, and say what I’m thinking as I think it. This rule’s weight falls with my counterpart’s chest size and the hours on my cheap Swatch.
Small talk is Hitler when I must endure it, yet a damned law if anyone else dares skip it. Don’t play instant buddy without bracing for a counterpunch. Stand in front of me, shake my hand, tell me who you are. And give me money. Lots of money. Then we can go on. While scrawny Erik drones about his plans for some idiotic web project and Irina’s lips seem to melt, I try to tell the bartender telepathically to bring a sharp knife, pull the fire alarm, or recite filthy jokes in operatic form. None of that happens. I’m handed a glass of champagne. I nod, clink with both, and laugh insincerely at a more-than-lousy pun. God, I’m fake.
On a warm summer evening, when the cicadas were diligently chirping away and the moon was slowly pushing itself onto the stage of the sky, a friend and I were on our way home from an exhibition when, not far off, we first heard music and shortly after cheerful laughter. Because we were curious and still had a bit of energy left, we decided to see what was going on there. So we picked our way through the neighborhood’s ever-narrowing streets and walked past streams, houses, and playgrounds until, a short time later, we stood at the edge of a small park where a neighborhood festival was underway. And it took less than a minute before friendly, perhaps slightly tipsy, people invited us to join the little festivity.
So we made ourselves comfortable on the blue tarp spread out in the middle of the park and looked around. In front of us a thrown-together band was playing familiar Japanese songs, and all around small stalls had been set up selling cool drinks and fried delicacies. Around us sat talkative families, and children chased dogs, cats, and each other, or danced acrobatically and interestingly to the guitar tones of the cheerful musical artists. We watched the summer spectacle unfolding before us with interest, and my companion confessed to me that she hadn’t known about this festival at all - despite the fact that she had already lived in this neighborhood for several years.
I personally was glad to be allowed to be part of this small gathering. After all, I don’t stumble into a little Japanese summer festival every day. And as much as I love darting over the crossing in Shibuya, admiring Sensoji in Asakusa, and indulging in the latest nerd trends in Akihabara, my heart truly opens only when I discover Japan from intimate sides that remain hidden to most outsiders. Because they aren’t made for them, because they aren’t advertised, because they happen off all the beaten paths. And so we stayed until the end, until the band had given its last turn onstage. And as people said their farewells, we too set off home, warmed by the sense of having experienced something small we will draw on for a long time.
I love Japanese pop music. J-pop, those are the anthems of my small, private, messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They are not marketed to me through TV ads and radio slots and newsletters. I don’t exist for them. I can piece together their meaning on my own. I know nothing about their scandals, their problems, or their rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me and folks who are a little bit different as well. Its emotional range has something ready for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. And one of the modern greats of this musical wonder world doesn’t even exist anymore: BiSH.
Girl groups belong to Japan like sushi, sake, and an underwear fetish. The ensembles called idol groups, AKB48, Nogizaka46, or Passpo, show up anywhere and everywhere. On television, on the radio, on billboards, in constant rotation. In metropolises like Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka you can hardly escape their perfect smiles. In smaller cities there are often local copies of the big role models, not quite so thoroughly styled. The band BiSH went at it a little harder than the well-known groupings. Situated somewhere between Scandal, Stereopony, and Morning Musume, Aina The End, Cent Chihiro Chittiii, Momoko Gumi Company, Lingling, Hashiyasume Atsuko, and Ayuni D tried to bless the Far Eastern music world with an audiovisual alternative.
They were not anti, not opposed, not averse to the cliché - quite the opposite. The members of BiSH, an abbreviation for Brand-new idol SHiT, made the sweet idolhood their own, and for that very reason sometimes didn’t seem like themselves. Whether that is good or bad, their homeland decided long ago. There they are unforgettable. Songs like PAiNT it BLACK, SMACK baby SMACK, and GiANT KiLLERS have made the girls of BiSH immortal. Their afterglow lingers: Evidence that candy-coated idol shine and a rougher bite can make something that sticks, even after the band is gone for good and only its voices remain. I can still hear their songs in convenience stores, karaoke rooms, and late-night variety shows. And, of course, BiSH will live on in my private playlists - forever.
We arrived at the foot of Mount Tatsuda, the site of the Hosokawa family temple, Taishoji. Today the grounds belong to Tatsuda Nature Park, green, wide, and quiet. Among bamboo and cedars stand four mausoleums: For Hosokawa Fujitaka, first lord of the Kumamoto domain, his wife, his son Hosokawa Tadaoki, the second lord, and Tadaoki’s wife, Hosokawa Gracia. History you can touch. The teahouse Ko-sho-ken moved me most. Restored from Tadaoki’s drawings, it recalls a man who was a warrior and a tea master. At the entrance sits a hand-washing stone he loved. In Kyoto, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and tea master Sen no Rikyu drew water from it. Later the Hosokawa lords carried a basin on sankin-kotai journeys to Edo to hold tea ceremonies - a traveling vessel.
And then there is the shadow of Miyamoto Musashi. One of his supposed graves is said to be here. In all, five places in Japan claim to be Musashi’s final resting place - three of them in Kumamoto, where he spent his last years and died in 1645. Another grave lies in Musashizuka Park on the old Ozu road, the former National Route 57, among cedars. Legend says Musashi was buried there in armor with his sword, following his wish to protect the Hosokawa from behind as they passed. The park holds a stone inscribed Stone Pagoda of the Sword Master Musashi and a bronze statue. The third grave, Nishi-Musashizuka, is in the Shimasaki district. Which is the real one? No one knows to this day.
Since 1955 the area has belonged to the city of Kumamoto as a loan from the Hosokawa family and has been called Tatsuda Nature Park. For people here it is simply a lovely place to breathe: Walking paths, shade, birds, benches, a hush in the trees. Officially, together with the Myogeji temple precinct in Kitaoka Nature Park, the site is designated a National Historic Site, because the Hosokawa family graveyard lies here. If you like history but not glass cases, the Taishoji temple grounds offer a quiet, dignified spot. Tea, samurai, and stories - and yet it is only a park where children laugh, strollers roll by, and the air smells of resin after sun, and crows wheel overhead. That, to me, is the Kumamoto I love.
I’ve never been cool. Not in kindergarten, not at school, not at work. While everyone around me adored the newest American hip-hoppers, wore Nike Air Max, and took drugs whose names I’d never heard, I kept to my small nerdy cosmos: Listening to the Chrono Trigger soundtrack on an iPod falling apart, wearing Superstars for fifteen years, and feeling extreme for taking a single drag. For music, series, or films I lived by torrents: Monthly indie-rock playlists via download links, anime via RSS, and movies from a university shared drive. Life felt nice and simple. When Spotify grew I ignored it. Why pay to rent music I don’t own and mostly won’t listen to? I dismissed it with a simple Nope.
Then the technological climate shifted. More and more of my friends showed the dark-green Spotify logo on phones and laptops. Look, I can play the new Kanye album without buying it! they said. My dismissal turned to mockery. I didn’t yet see how Spotify would spark a personal crisis in my cozy nerd world. Then Apple launched Apple Music and my safe harbor eroded: iTunes had been the repository of favorite albums, and suddenly even my preferred computer maker celebrated streaming. It crept into my cosmos. I’d once been an early adopter. First Mac while others used Windows XP, an iPod long before most, but now I felt obsolete. Streaming felt inevitable and uncomfortable. Owning media felt passe, piracy seemed seedy.
I tried to adapt. I copied all my MP3s, MKVs, and EPUBs to an external drive, reinstalled my OS and tried a torrent-free life: I signed up for Spotify, Netflix, and Crunchyroll. The resolve lasted a week. Spotify maddened me: Many beloved artists were missing, songs vanished from playlists without explanation, and recommendations skewed toward embarrassing rap or bland muzak. Netflix left me lethargically scrolling menus, unable to choose. My new digital self felt censored, localized, and useless. It wasn’t only about paying for many services but about crossing a creative rupture I couldn’t bridge. Streaming can be brilliant, yet with gatekeepers deciding what reaches us we risk trading an open internet for a future that feels like the past. A rift is forming and I want to be on the right side when everything finally falls apart.
Sometimes I wished I could muster the courage to leave everything behind, lock myself away forever in an apartment, and devote the rest of my life to a single online role-playing game. In the midst of an enchanted fantasy world full of wonders, dreams and secrets I would transform from a peasant boy into a heroic warrior, find unimaginable treasures and fight monsters, and band together with other outcasts bored with real life to form a sworn adventuring party. My days would be governed by quests, rituals, and leveling, by the pulse of raids, and the slow comfort of companionship the real world denied me. My existence would turn into a digital meaningfulness whose end would arrive only when the servers were switched off.
Moriko Morioka, thirty years old, single, and unemployed, put my dream into practice: An escape from reality. After losing her job she became a NEET, neither working nor studying, and seeking refuge she drifted into the World Wide Web. There she immersed herself in online games and reinvented her life as a young man named Hayashi. As a newcomer she nearly dies in the game but is rescued just in time by a girl called Lily. Through Lily she finds allies she can trust and begins a life online that finally feels fulfilling. Meanwhile, in the real world, she meets a handsome businessman who reminds her of someone she recently encountered. Will that encounter influence the life she has built in the game, and what will become of Moriko’s fulfilled MMORPG life?
Recovery of an MMO Junkie by Rin Kokuyo is one of my comfort anime, even though I am not much for romances and the director involved later turned out to be a disgrace. I still love anime about people living inside online role-playing games like World of Warcraft, Guild Wars 2, or Final Fantasy XIV. Whether it is Sword Art Online, Shangri-La Frontier, or Bofuri: I Don’t Want to Get Hurt, so I’ll Max Out My Defense, I enjoy watching others enact my secret dream: Finding not only the time of their lives but a kind of meaning in an otherwise hollow existence. And perhaps one day I, too, will summon the nerve, like Moriko, to renounce the drab, gray, utterly magic-less reality and finally surrender forever, without regret, to the warm, connected wonder of a digital world.
Japan is a country full of treats. Those who want to fill a hungry stomach efficiently and cheaply can find sushi, tempura, and ramen on every corner, in different price ranges, in hidden restaurants or crowded supermarkets. But Japan would not be Japan if it hadn't absorbed other culinary cultures and made them its own. Cities brim not only with steaming noodle shops and futuristic chains where raw fish on rice travels past on conveyor belts, but also offer delights from Spanish and Italian kitchens or, for those who prefer hearty, fatty, generous portions, the American culinary world. You encounter these options everywhere, from tiny stalls and family-run izakayas to high-end restaurants and bustling food halls in the most unexpected neighborhoods.
Although I love Japanese food in all its health-promoting variety, I sometimes have to descend into Western-influenced fast-food depths to keep from losing my mind. After all, nothing soothes a stressed head like calorie-drenched soul food. Japan tempts hearts that long for an early death by cheeseburgers, French fries and sugary cold drinks not only with imported names such as McDonald’s, Burger King, and TGI Friday’s, but also with homegrown chains founded in the Land of the Rising Sun. From MOS Burger to Dom Dom and on to Zetteria, the choices range wide: Sandwiches piled thick with meat, cheese, and vegetables, fried platters, and combos that seem to dare you to resist. They are available at train stations, convenience locations and late-night outlets across the country.
My personal go-to franchise, frequented with friends, is Freshness Burger, known for its delicious fat bombs. Its first branch opened in Shibuya in the early 1980s. The official slogan, Burger cafe where adults can relax that proposes a high-quality eating habit, is as curiously phrased as the similarly English-sounding slogans of other competitors. But in my experience Freshness Burger not only serves the most generously topped and juiciest sandwiches, it also often offers surprising specials that I am only too happy to devour. And, what is almost more important: The fries taste, unlike those from the better-known rivals, as if they were more than a sadly looking side dish. Gigi Hadid once famously said: Eat clean to stay fit, have a burger to stay sane. And she was right.
My journey begins in the Northshire Valley, enclosed by high mountains, somewhere in the thickly wooded Elwynn Forest. Before me stands not only the abbey of the local brotherhood but also an adventure that will take me into frozen deserts, bubbling volcanoes, and creepy ghost towns. When I meet my friends, masquerading as knights, thieves, and wizards, behind the towering gates of the royal fortress Stormwind, and outfit myself there with keen blades, shining shields, and magical potions, I can hardly rein in my anticipation. The scent of pine and old stone, the flutter of banners, and the clanking of armor all heighten the thrill. One thing is certain: Whatever challenges await in this digital wonderland, we will endure and overcome them together.
World of Warcraft is probably the largest and thus best-known online role-playing game, where paying participants slip into the roles of elves, dwarves, gnomes, orcs, trolls, and even talking pandabears on the fantastic planet of Azeroth. They explore mysterious continents, live through adventures and complete quests, forge friendships, build alliances, and clash with enemies for power and glory. Players create characters, shape their skills, take on professions, tackle dungeons, trade, and socialize. When the heroes are not busy fishing, collecting pets, or idly bouncing around auction houses, they immerse themselves in an epic saga of love, hatred, and broken dreams in which Alliance and Horde face each other bloodily and vie for the favor of gods and devils - by any means imaginable.
When I installed World of Warcraft on my newly bought Mac Mini in the mid-2000s, I played straight through until exhaustion set in at dawn. The months that followed were an experience that can never be repeated. Everything felt new, thrilling, and magical. People around the globe logged into World of Warcraft to swap dreary everyday life for a generic but interactive Lord of the Rings copy. Some players became completely lost in it, even to this day, although twenty years on the initial fascination has largely faded. I would give anything to wake once more in the Northshire Valley, ringed by high mountains, and set off with my friends to rediscover Azeroth and its fantastic tales, as if seeing it anew. But times change.
Summer here in Japan is slowly drawing to a close, though no one has informed the sun. It remains so hot and muggy that every step outdoors becomes a sweaty ordeal, at least when I dare to leave the house in broad daylight. Even so, over these past months I’ve tried to see, experience, and take in as much as I can. After all, every minute in this country, in this adventure, is precious. Sooner or later I’ll be back on a plane, heading home, and any moment I haven’t used to the fullest will feel wasted. I want to keep that potential regret small, so I push myself to go, to look, to listen, to be present, and to savor what this place offers.
I grabbed dear friends and headed with them into every shop and restaurant that looked even vaguely inviting. We drove into the mountains and out to the water. We wandered through cities, museums, and temples. I met locals and people from every corner of the globe whose stories, dreams, or simply their way of not taking life too seriously touched and inspired me. Japan is a riotously colorful grab-bag, a lucky packet worth opening and exploring. Whether in nerdy manga shops, smoky izakaya, or mist-shrouded samurai graveyards, I’m grateful for each memory I’m allowed to carry along on the rest of my journey, a pocketful of moments that clink like coins and remind me why I came so far in the first place.
And while the sun spent the days of this summer beating down on us without mercy, as if to taunt us and prove itself the ruler of the sky, Kumamoto at night turned into an idyllic dreamscape, a black-blue paradise full of chirring cicadas, croaking frogs, and purring cats. Fireworks stitched light across the dark vault, and in meadows ringed by small houses people sat and grilled, drank, and sang. Neighbors waved, wind bells tinkled, and smoke drifted upward like a prayer. Now summer here in Japan is coming to an end - and with it my year in this city at the far edge of the world, a place that welcomed me, challenged me, and, in ways I never expected, changed who I am.
The Japanese music label Wack, itself belonging to the J-pop giant Avex, is famous for its eccentric groups, among them BiSH, EMPiRE, and Gang Parade. Founded in 2014 by Junnosuke Watanabe, the company declared a clear mission: To offer a proper stage to artists who are a little more experimental, a little stranger, and not immediately comfortable inside conventional idol frameworks. Crucially, that support doesn’t mean indifference to results. Even while foregrounding otherness and odd textures, Wack aims its performers toward success and plans their activities with that outcome in mind. The label’s identity sits between provocation and pragmatism, pairing freedom to try unusual ideas with careful presentation and smart promotion so that unorthodox performers can still reach large audiences across Japan.
ASP is one of Wack’s newer workhorses, arriving at a moment when the label has to reorient after the breakup of the exceptional unit BiSH. To keep up in Japan’s fiercely competitive music market, the group now opens itself even more to alternative directions, trying approaches that are off to the side of mainstream idol pop while still jostling for attention. Their first album bore a telling, tone-setting title Anal Sex Penis, which makes plain how seriously they take themselves: Not at all. The provocation operates like a wink and a shrug, announcing a willingness to poke at taboos and to laugh at expectations, even as the underlying aim, to succeed within that crowded field, remains in view. From the outset, the band signaled that irreverence was part of their method.
The lineup, Yumeka Nowkana, Nameless, Mog Ryan, Matilder Twins, Wonker Twins, CCCCCC, and Riontown, cheerfully kicks at the fixed rules laid down by their predecessors, especially in live performances, where expectations are treated with irreverence. Yet they never completely hide what they are at heart: A cast pop-punk band full of shy girls who from time to time prefer to strike quieter, more reflective notes, like in I Won’t Let You Go, my personal favorite. That mix of brashness and modesty, of noise and pause, shapes ASP’s character. Precisely this seemingly paradoxical spectrum sets them apart from the competition and gives them an unusual opportunity to extend their otherwise rather short half-life, in contrast to the countless peers whose momentum fades quickly in the same crowded, fast-moving idol environment. It keeps curiosity alive while allowing growth without abandoning their origin.
The other night over dinner, a friend asked why I love lesser-known films so much. Her favorites are American action blockbusters like Die Hard, The Transporter, and the high-octane The Fast and the Furious series with Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, and Michelle Rodriguez, while my patchy watchlist includes titles like Nightcrawler, Melancholia, and My Small Land. My quick, perhaps rash, answer was that I enjoy movies that lodge in my memory, that I might still recall years later because they moved me, fascinated me, or taught me something. Maybe it’s simply that I was in love with someone in the cast. I chase the afterglow: A scene that lingers, a line that won’t fade, a feeling that taps me on the shoulder after the credits roll.
In the shadow of the multiplexes in Kumamoto, somewhere between Toho, Aeon, and SMT, which lure crowds with hits like Jurassic World, Under Ninja, and the latest Demon Slayer, plus popcorn, tortilla chips, and syrupy cola in huge cups, stands my favorite cinema: The Denkikan. Its dark walls, hung with obscure posters, host local gems and far-flung wonders, whose popularity sits somewhere between celery salad, cloudy sunsets, and computers running Linux as a daily driver. How many people can say they saw Oasis, The Jazz Loft, or All We Imagine as Light in a theater? A haven where the projector hums, the aisles creak, and I catch whispers of other lives. A schedule like a treasure map inviting me to trust the curators and go somewhere unexpected.
With a freshly brewed coffee on one side and a companion on the other, I let the Denkikan carry me into unfamiliar worlds. On these long screenings, there are often no more than five fellow travelers, scattered among the seats. Of course, I value the blockbuster experience too. Surrendering to wild action with sweet-and-salty snacks is as valid as falling for small secrets. Yet there is special magic when, in my little favorite theater, I watch Japanese indie films like Rainy Blue, At the Bench, and Linda Linda Linda. Those are the films that make my heart beat faster, the ones that hum behind ordinary days, turn the walk home into an epilogue, and remind me that quiet stories can claim space in a life.
Staggering from the cave on my last reserves, I let my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight as a vast, mountain-studded snowscape unfurls before me. In towns clasped by timber and stone, merchants, thieves, and kings ply their trades. Dragons, werewolves, and vampires wake. Bright hoards and darker magics hide from the gaze of a budding civil war. I wipe fresh bear blood from my skin and set out for the next village. It is not the first time I have roamed these forests, nor will it be the last. Once more I have returned. To the valleys of Skyrim, where the wind bites like iron and distant watchtowers blink with fire as paths fork, promising danger, coin, and stories for the stubborn and brave.
Two hundred years after the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls V stands at the brink. The High King of Skyrim has been assassinated. New alliances form and stake their claim to the throne. Yet amid this conflict, a far more perilous, ancient threat stirs to life. The dragons, whose existence is whispered in long-forgotten passages of the Elder Scrolls and deemed extinct, have returned to Tamriel. Skyrim’s future, and that of the entire Empire, hangs in the balance as the land waits for the prophecy to unfold: The coming of the Dragonborn, a hero wielding the Power of the Voice, the Thu’um, and the only one capable of standing against the dragons - foretold in runes and shouts carved into cold stone walls.
Nothing sets my little nerd heart racing like diving into The Elder Scrolls V. Again and again. Sometimes as a kindhearted knight who rescues fair maidens, builds homes, and adopts children. Sometimes as a ruthless mage who slaughters monsters and farmers alike. And sometimes as a naked madman who, thanks to supernatural powers, can vault over castle walls, marry deities, and fight Spider-Man, with essentially one overriding goal: To hoard every cheese wheel in the realm. The Elder Scrolls V is a vast playground full of marvelous characters and intriguing stories. Returning to the world of Skyrim is, each time, a blend of adventure and coming home, a feeling only a handful of computer games ever manage to create with enduring comfort for me.
Although my chest houses the heart of a digital minimalist and light-footed traveler who thinks in bits and bytes and has gradually moved the baggage of his not-so-young life into the cloud, I have nonetheless kept a soft spot for printed media. Whether books, magazines, or newspapers, something happens to me when I hold these riotously colorful works of art in my hands and can not only look at them but also feel them, smell them and, to a certain extent, even hear them. I buy them sometimes fresh off the press at the kiosk or happily second-hand, always knowing that I will take their secrets into myself and then release them back into the world before someone else can fall in love with them.
One of my favorite magazines is the Japanese Popeye. It’s a monthly fashion and men’s magazine based in Tokyo, addressing clothes, sports, and everyday culture from a young male perspective. Popeye was founded in 1976 by Yoshihisa Kinameri, who saw Japan at the time in a state of drift and wanted to encourage the country’s youth toward a healthier lifestyle. In the meantime it has grown into one of the nation’s most influential cultural publications. The magazine is widely known for introducing American youth culture to Japanese readers. In his book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, W. David Marx described Popeye’s debut issue as a sunny take on life in California, where youth were carving out the future for the rest of civilization.
Each issue tackles a specific theme that it introduces to its readers. Sometimes it is about trips to the small and big metropolises of the world, New York, Seoul, London, Taipei, Paris, about the freshest films, books, and fashion trends, about cool restaurants with which city boys can impress their girlfriend - if they even have one. But most interesting to me is the Japanese gaze on the world and the selection of stories Popeye correspondents bring back to readers in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto, and also from the farthest corners of Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Kyushu. I dig the style, the interviews, the photo features, especially the Girls in the City series. Popeye is a beautifully designed declaration of love to mindful consumption and one reason print must never die.
The weather over the past few months here in Kumamoto seems to recognize only two possible settings. Either it strives to mimic the lava-laced dungeons of hell and cook us alive, or it bombards us so mercilessly with rain, gales, and typhoons that building an ark seems the logical step for ferrying ourselves, and a few stray animals, to safety. Thanks to climate change, or rather to those who deny it, the weather has digivolved into my personal arch-enemy, and I, in turn, into one of those people who cannot help, at every opportunity these days, lamenting how awful things already are and how much worse they are likely to become - assuming, of course, there is any future left for us at all, for anyone paying attention.
The other day I came home seared through, surely nurturing one or two splendidly developing cases of skin cancer, only to realize that, precisely as I pulled the front door shut behind me and took a brief cold shower to stop the sweating, the rain began outside. The joy at this long-overdue cool-down, and the prudent fact that I had just finished the groceries and therefore did not need to venture back out, did not last long. What started as an exciting thunderstorm, complete with flash after flash and rolling thunder, quickly morphed into a rainstorm so merciless that one chirpy, softly whirring disaster notification after another began lighting up my phone, stacking themselves into a cheerful little tower of alarms on the glowing lock screen.
In front of my house the street turned into a long paddling pool, while I was first instructed to evacuate and later, because the bridges were overflowing, told to wait it out. Since I live on the second floor, I watched the drama through the window and on special reports on TV. My only fear was that the power might fail or the water supply be hit, but that did not happen. Sleep was impossible that night, because my phone chimed every few hours, sending grim alerts one after another. While I, as I learned next morning, got off lightly, others coped with flooded homes, cars, and supermarkets. Let us hope this was the worst we will have to endure in the near future.
There are certain Japanese subcultures to which, to date, I’ve never really found an entry point. Among them are animated VTubers, masked superheroes à la Kamen Rider, and kaiju - giant monsters that, at regular intervals, stomp Tokyo flat. Well-known examples include Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah, Gamera, and of course the universally beloved Godzilla, brought to life by Ishiro Honda. I did see Roland Emmerich’s American version in theaters in the late ’90s, yet the destructive spectacle didn’t leave much of an impression on me whatsoever. And that’s strange, because I generally adore it when the world is reduced to rubble in the media I consume. Somehow, though, this particular behemoth and his city-crushing antics never quite worked their way under my skin.
The basic idea for Godzilla came from producer Tomoyuki Tanaka. The inspiration is said to have been the incident of a Japanese fishing boat that strayed into the fallout zone of an American nuclear weapons test. The first film, from 1954, in its original Japanese version is not only technically impressive in its effects, it is also a thoughtfully constructed work in terms of plot and drama, one that can be read as an allegory for Japan’s trauma after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or as a direct reaction to the nuclear mishap that struck the small fishing boat. Since then, and with a nod to King Kong, Godzilla has run amok and spread fear and terror - most often in Japan’s major cities.
To develop feelings for the skyscraper-tall and perhaps even misunderstood reptile, I recently watched the newest, critic-lauded installment in the film saga, Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One. There, a kamikaze pilot tormented by survivor’s guilt seeks redemption when a giant monster he failed to kill is transformed by radiation from atomic bomb tests and lays siege to postwar Japan. It’s about honor, guilt, love, grief, friendship, responsibility - and, naturally, many demolished properties. Unfortunately, I was as whelmed by this Godzilla outing as I once was by Roland Emmerich’s attempt to bring the creature to New York. Maybe I simply don’t fear irradiated monsters, no matter how loudly they roar. Godzilla and I, despite its cultural relevance, will probably never be friends. What a pity.
Summer in Japan is barbecue season. Partly that’s because it is, let’s say, bold to leave raw fish outdoors for longer than three seconds in these godless, blistering temperatures, let alone try to serve it to anyone. And partly it’s because there is nothing more flavorful than sinking your teeth, with an ice-cold beer, or in my case tea loaded with rattling ice cubes, in freshly grilled scraps of meat, blazing-hot sausages, and the occasional almost-scorched piece of vegetable. Ideally it happens while good conversations flow and cheerful company gathers around. In that setting even the sweatiest evenings can be endured with a little style, a lot of taste, and decent entertainment, and somehow they pass pleasantly instead of painfully. That, in short, is summer survival, Japanese-style.
A few friends and I therefore met above the rooftops of Kumamoto, at the American-leaning burger, hot-dog, and barbecue spot Jiro 26, to celebrate that day’s sunset once again for the brief coolness it brought along. We were entrusted with cute little gas grills and got to ornament each of them with bite-sized steaks, strips of bacon, and wiener sausages. Between the meats we set down carrots, cabbage, and bell peppers. When everything was cooked through and tantalizing, we dipped the treats in punchy sauces and let them melt away on our damp tongues. From the terrace we watched the city settle as the sky dimmed. Tongs clicked and grills hissed softly while we hovered, trading pieces, comparing doneness, raising toasts to the breeze and fading light.
Because we are, all of us, small gluttonous creatures, we raided the steaming pot of curry after the barbecue, as well as the rice cooker standing beside it with an almost innocent air. To wrap things up we went bowling at the nearby sports center, where we taught the pins a lesson in fear. Evenings like these are my regular reminder of why I love Japan - apart from the candy-colored entertainment industry and the tropes that are so quick to see through. After all, here I get to have a wonderful time with even more wonderful people I would never have met otherwise. They anchor me to ordinary joy and make the city feel friendly, close, and warmly lived-in - and delicious barbecue comes on top.
Sometimes I refuse to consume media that has become too popular. Whether films, shows, or video games, once the hype train really gathers speed and it feels as if the entire planet is trying to convince me that I have to watch, listen to, or simply experience this thing because it’s the finest achievement humanity has produced in its more than 300,000-year history, I react almost reflexively with a defense mechanism that looks suspiciously like an allergy. I tense up, dig in my heels, and avoid it on principle. Familiar examples are Squid Game, The Weeknd, and Balatro, whose emotional impact on my life falls somewhere between militant indifference and a burning, slightly irrational hatred that I can’t quite justify even to myself.
Yet I have decided to change this attitude. Exercising healthy agency by refusing to chase every, mostly artificially stoked, trend is admirable, and I still value that instinct. But when I renounce every recommendation, even those from close friends, and retreat into obscure niches, I insulate myself bit by bit from the mainstream and thus from the shared experiences of an entire generation, depriving myself of any chance to feel genuine empathy for others. I stop speaking the same cultural language. Following this new logic, I recently watched Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite, approaching it with open curiosity, and trying to meet the work on its own terms rather than through resentment. That was my small but deliberate experiment in loosening my stubborn grip.
In the film, the Kim family has hit rock bottom. Father, mother, son, and daughter live in a dim semi-basement and will take any odd job. Only when the youngest gets hired as a tutor in the ultra-chic villa of the Park family do the Kims board the carousel of class conflict. With clever schemes, talent, and teamwork, they push out the Parks’ employees one by one. Before long, the Kims are indispensable to their new employers. Then an unforeseen incident sets off a chain of events as unpredictable as it is unbelievable. I found Parasite as brilliant, surprising, and surreal as everyone said. I’m glad this positive experience is my first step back toward a renewed love of pop culture.
The Japanese language is a mountain that can be climbed only through perseverance, diligence, and the support of people who have already mastered it. Step by step, piece by piece, and word by word, I haul myself from one ledge to the next. What began as a picturesque hike through the gentle woods of romaji, hiragana, and katakana, sweetened by simple vocabulary and understandable grammar, with one little success after another, turned, with each waystation I managed to reach, into a personal odyssey among ambiguous kanji, hazy shades of politeness, and pitch accents I can hardly distinguish. As I climb, the air thins and I lean on the ropes offered by guides. Yet even as the path narrows and the rocks bite, the summit still glints somewhere ahead, inviting.
On my Japanese-learning journey so far I have ridden out every high and low. There is euphoria when I not only understand something but can reshape it and use it in my own words. And there is frustration when the cashier at the nearby supermarket asks me a question and all I can manage is 大丈夫, because from her stream of speech I could not catch any of the usual anchors like 伏る, カード, or 箸. At those times I either feel a surge of drive and reconfigure my whole life into Japanese, listening to podcasts, buying stacks of manga, and watching YouTube, only to crash, burned out, a few days later. Or I simply want to quit, once and for all, and walk away from the mountain altogether.
After riding those emotional waves, I realized that everyone has to find a personal way of learning Japanese. For some people it works to ban every other language from daily life and, for a time, almost become Japanese. Others keep studying Spanish, Korean, and Icelandic alongside it and somehow rack up more progress than I do. For still others the best path is to keep things loose, curious, and fun, following interest rather than duty, and letting momentum build slowly. I very clearly belong to that last group. And I count myself fortunate that there are kind people who actively encourage me, answer questions, correct my stumbles, and cheer from the trail as I keep moving forward, sometimes crawling, sometimes striding, but always, stubbornly, continuing the climb.
Anyone who, like me, grew up in a small town, or worse, in the countryside, knows the single, unshakable urge: To get away at the first faint excuse. To vanish into the city, among the tall buildings, the loud parties, the cheap drugs. Or something like that. The point is: Gone, gone, gone. Anything but the yokel left behind. And then, after managing it at last, surviving five, ten, perhaps twenty years in the tangle of the metropolis, のんのんびより drifts across my path and drags me backward. Back into a green and lucid place, where things seem better, truer, closer. A slower world that takes my hand and smiles, as if it has been waiting.
The story itself is as uneventful as staring into a still pond. Hotaru, a fifth grader, moves from Tokyo to the sleepy hamlet of Asahigaoka in the far greens of Japan’s countryside because of her father’s work. In the local and mostly empty school, she meets a likeable group of even more likeable girls, each entirely unlike the others. That is all there is to see. In のんのんびより there are no grand villains, no exploding tentacles, no ominous magic. Only the shy Hotaru, the undersized Komari, the mischievous Natsumi, and the tiny Renge, who speaks as if she suffered a small stroke every few seconds. Renge won me over almost immediately.
Every episode is heartbreakingly calm, unhurried, and idyllic. In truth, Atto’s series is a harmonious refuge for anyone worn thin by life, by work, by love. Nothing feels more vital than to stay there forever, to spend the year in that village where Kaede is known simply as Candy Store, where Kazuho keeps nodding off, where Suguru rarely has anything to say. It is so beautiful there that I want to scream and weep at the same time. I already knew I would treasure のんのんびより the moment I felt its pace. Just as I had once fallen for serene series like Jo’s Boys, Anne of Green Gables, and Dog of Flanders. It’s a quiet paradise where every day is good, no matter what disaster might be raging beyond its borders.
From early youth, my life was divided into chapters named for the women I happened to love at the time. Whether in Berlin, in Tokyo, or wherever I drifted, and whether anything became a relationship, whether intimacy happened or not, it was always too easy for me to become so intent on one woman that she defined an entire era. From this came obsessions that at times stretched across years, fed by depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and a self-diagnosed borderline condition, and they often ended in an emotional detonation. After a few quiet weeks or months, another woman would appear. Hopes, dreams, and fantasies were projected onto her, and the cycle began again.
There is a name for this hyperfocused state: Limerence. The term was introduced in 1979 by Dorothy Tennov, an American professor of behavioral psychology, in her book Love and Limerence. It denotes an extreme form of being in love, already more than just having a simple crush on someone, and the patterns that accompany it: Relentless, nearly compulsive thinking about the beloved. Longing for reciprocation. Constant fear of rejection. A blind spot for her negative traits. A narrowing of perception to objects and incidents that relate to her. And shyness and uncertainty in her presence. According to Tennov, limerence may pass into love if a relationship takes hold. If it remains one-sided, it fades of its own accord, and the state can last from a few months to several years.
My limerences resulted in me organizing entire days around the woman I’m currently fixated on. There is no stalking on my part, yet jealousy and possessiveness appear, of course at odds with reality. When energy runs high, an open, charismatic version of me steps forward. When my body and mind are tired, withdrawal follows. Over time it became clear that my fixation is not on the woman as she is, but on the separate fragments of an ideal assembled for her. The fall begins when my feelings go unreturned and expectations collapse, and the only useful act is an unconditional retreat and a renewed willingness to meet other people, with the hope that this vicious circle will finally break - no matter how, and by whom.
Good stories put a quiet spell on me. Whether they arrive as books, films, or video games, what lingers afterward, often for far longer than I expect, isn’t the glossy, polished shell so many media try to sell these days, but the people inside and the moments that temper them into something tougher and wiser. That is why adventures pull me in. Maniac Mansion, Leisure Suit Larry, and The Secret of Monkey Island don’t just tell varied, engaging tales - they let me stand close enough to feel them. And sometimes the mood can tilt darker, which suits me fine. So it does in the pulp thriller The Drifter, where the light thins and the edges grow hard.
In The Drifter we follow Mick Carter as he is hauled headfirst into a tangled web of shady corporations, murder, and a madman’s thousand-year obsession. The hobo has been adrift for a while, trading one job for another, never staying long anywhere. He jumps a freight car toward the town he once called home, witnesses a brutal killing, is chased by high-tech soldiers, thrown into a reservoir, and drowned. That, however, is only the beginning of his trouble. His consciousness comes loose and is forced back into his body mere seconds before death. He ends up wanted for the murder he saw, tormented by his own past, and stalked by the conviction that something from the far side is on his trail.
What begins as supposed fantasies in a middle-aged loser’s head swiftly becomes a layered adventure suspended between a tragic past and a future that looks spent. The story moves Mick along at a sure pace, one situation to the next, with barely a breath in between. One moment he’s assembling a Molotov cocktail from a bottle of high-proof rum. The next he’s interrogating a corrupt neurosurgeon. Before long he has to swing out of a high-rise window on a frayed extension cord. The Drifter is a gripping rollercoaster of feeling, its lineages easy to sense: Steven King, Michael Crichton, and John Carpenter, with a trace of 1970s Australian grindhouse. In the end, good stories never die out.
I never thought of myself as particularly attached to home, yet staying away too long causes a small ache that points, stubbornly, toward Germany. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the sound of the language, its clipped edges and sudden softnesses, absent from the air around me. At other moments a single habit or custom goes missing, and the day stumbles. An unspoken social rule fails to hold where I am, and the floor feels a little slanted. There are days when none of that speaks loud enough, and the craving reduces itself to something simpler and more insistent: Food. The kind that anchors a life even when one pretends not to notice.
After almost a year in Japan, the local fare has become familiar and, I admit it, beloved. Sushi and sashimi. Ramen and soba. Karaage and tempura. Bowls of rice, miso soup drifting its warm salt, plates of pickled vegetables that square the meal. When a different appetite insists, the shelves and coolers answer with Japanese versions of spaghetti, pizza, and richly filled sandwiches from convenience stores and neighborhood supermarkets, each with its own taste and charm that refuses easy comparison. Still, there are hours when German hausmannskost presses forward. The Sunday dishes my grandmother conjured onto the table at noon, the steam rising as if from her sleeves. Beef roulades, käsespätzle, fried potatoes. Or, if nothing else, a good, moist loaf of black bread.
To quiet that longing, Erika and I went to the German beer restaurant Oden in downtown and set out to fill our bellies with Central European comforts. The menu staged its pretzels, bratwurst, and potato salads between Japanese side dishes in a way that didn’t look especially German, and the food came with chopsticks that we used with wide smiles on our faces. The room didn’t shift into Bavaria, nor did time turn obliging. The city outside kept its pace, and we ate the meal it offered. Yet the distance shortened by a finger’s width, and the missing eased for the span of an afternoon, enough to carry me back into the week with a quieter hunger for home.
It’s no secret that, deep in my heart, I’m a nerd. I love wacky video games, quietly vibe to anime soundtracks, and enjoy stories in which foolish villagers become true heroes. Pen-and-paper adventures draw me in, and I gladly take part. Among mixed groups of barbarians, mages, and warlocks, I fight monsters, find great treasure, and rescue fair maidens. Although my media consume often leads me down the psychological abysses of human beings to understand them, and perhaps myself, better, from time to time I simply need a hefty pinch of fantastic, humorous tales somewhere between fantasy and science fiction. The kind that let my soul hang loose. One such refuge was the film Honor Among Thieves from the Dungeons & Dragons universe, which I finally managed to watch recently.
Is there honor among thieves? Our unusual hero in this exciting fantasy flick certainly doesn’t ask. Former bard and thief Edgin breaks out of prison with his partner, the barbarian Holga. In a world full of long-lost legends, opaque magic, and overweight Wyrmsmiths, the two join the wizard Simon, the druid Doric, and the paladin Xenk to form a thieving crew. Their special mission is clear: Recover a lost relic and stop the cunning rogue Forge and his dark plans. Yet he knows how to make the lives of our heroes as difficult as possible. The magical venture is full of dangers, and plenty goes wrong, but the thieves are not easily discouraged. Where there is no honor, there are no rules. Whatever awaits them, they will be ready. Perhaps.
Honor Among Thieves is a colorful, witty, and adventurous fantasy film in the best sense. The world around Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast invites a mental dive and resurfacing. It reminded me of those absurd pen-and-paper evenings with friends, when we pulled every kind of nonsense and regularly drove our game master to madness. The film pleased me so much that I urgently long for a sequel. As a series, the story would also have worked. Some narrative strands could then have been told more fully. It was like a smaller The Lord of the Rings, one that doesn’t take itself quite as seriously as the original sometimes does. Through Honor Among Thieves, I rediscovered my affection for classic fantasy and would gladly see more of Edgin and his cheerful crew.
Everyone seems to hold a different idea of minimalism. For me it means freedom. Freedom from objects that weigh on me, distract me, or hold me back. Consciously and unconsciously I try to remove, or at least shrink, anything that blocks spontaneity or agency. Over the years I have learned to let go. I have noticed that many things that seem essential are nothing more than cargo - both material and mental. When they are gone, I breathe more steadily and act more directly. Most of the time the rule is simple: Once something leaves my field of vision, it leaves my mind as well. The room created by subtraction becomes quiet, and in that quiet I can decide what I truly want.
I have become a nomad without fixed roots, moving from place to place and observing each location with childlike curiosity. Whether my journey stretches across Europe, America, and now Asia, or consists of a short walk to the nearest café, I want to rise, step out, and move without schedules, packing lists, or negotiation. Even the laptop that once promised mobility began to interfere. Whenever I left the room I needed a backpack, and the weight on my shoulders sharpened my awareness of limitation. That awareness felt heavy, not only on my body but on my thoughts. I learned that mobility is not only distance but also ease. When ease disappears, travel becomes a task rather than a movement.
To carry as little as possible and still be ready for anything, I placed my whole digital existence inside one object: My phone. It holds my books, movies, games, music, and personal pictures. I can write, photograph, and record anywhere, whether I sit by the sea, climb a hill, or lie in a hospital bed. The screen guides me through unfamiliar streets, links me with other people, and manages my knowledge, plans, and finances. Even if the city unravels around me, the small rectangle in my pocket holds its quiet order and points me toward the next turn. I no longer measure freedom by the number of things I own but by the lightness with which I can leave them behind. To me, pure minimalism is carrying my entire life in the single device that never leaves my side.
Since my earliest days I have loved Japanese role‑playing games. No other genre draws me so deep into hidden worlds, deliberate stories, and mentally unstable characters. Dragon Quest, Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger - whenever little boys rise to become god-slayers, I remain before the glowing screen for hundreds of hours, tracing each dialogue box while the world outside steadily burns to the ground. Over the years I learned that these Far Eastern legends reach far beyond my room. They travel across languages and teach strangers to dream in the same fantasy worlds. Today their imprint is visible in Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, a surprise hit from a studio in France. The developers do not hide their admiration. It breathes through every single visible polygon.
The game unfolds on the small island of Lumière, housed inside the Belle Époque filtered through stone, steel, and smoke. For sixty‑seven years the inhabitants have faced an annual event called Gommage. Each summer a goddess known as the Paintress writes a number on the sky, always one smaller than the previous. Everyone whose age is the same or greater dies, quietly, without marks. To break this cycle, the city council selects a squad after each ceremony and sends it across the channel to stop the Paintress before the next inscription. None have returned. Expedition 33 boards its vessel with hopes, dreams, and fears of what lies beyond the sea. We follow the march of these brave souls through a world that almost seems to be too beautiful to be true.
Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is not a Japanese role‑playing game, even when the palette, the soundtrack, and the battle rolls insist on that lineage. During my journey I recognised fragments of NieR Automata, echoes of Final Fantasy, and the depths of Xenoblade Chronicles. Yet the imitation stops short of substance. The protagonists are nothing but tristful replicas of stratified, flesh-and-blood individuals. The world changes little and blends together, its flora and fauna repeating in blurred loops, and the final revelation comes short in epicness. Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is the Avatar: The Last Airbender of video games - a botched attempt to mimic the emotional range of its idols without grasping the force that makes the originals so devastating and compelling. What remains is a rebuilt framework in vaguely French attire. I’d rather stay inside my Japanese wonderlands.
I have lived in Japan for almost a year now. The steady scrutiny that accompanies the life of a so‑called gaijin outside the big cities no longer unsettles me. Children greet me as they coast past on bicycles, pensioners bow if I avoid blocking the aisles, and girls in navy uniforms let their eyes linger for a moment when they think no one notices. Instead of discomfort, I feel quiet ease. People treat me with kindness or at least with courtesy that seems honest. Many are happy to speak a few words, test their English, or ask why I picked their town over the neon capitals they know from television. Each morning I rehearse simple Japanese, relieved when the sounds land cleanly.
I come from a country known for old wounds and a renewed appetite for exclusion. It’s hard for me to ignore or even forget that. Japan is conservative, and I understood that before stepping off the plane, yet I was still shaken when an extremist party drew strong support in the recent election, most of it from voters my age or younger, some of them friends who share coffee with me on Saturdays. Their approval surprised me more than the numbers on the screen. It showed me that the rejection I thought I had left behind can surface anywhere. The campaign’s orange flyers appeared suddenly, on walls and in hands. Some teachers at my university shrugged, saying protest votes were unavoidable, then changed the topic.
My frustration grew when I could not show those friendly, curious people how they were being guided. This nation’s fishers of men use the same routine every radical group prefers. Short slogans, invented statistics, and a steady supply of unease. With those tools they collect not only votes but also the public attention needed for patient work on real, often tangled problems. Some asked why I remain liberal. The reason is simple and selfish. I want to live in a world that does not restrict movement, a place where eyes follow me only out of curiosity and never out of hate. Nothing else seems worth defending. I remind myself that freedom rests on ordinary choices made every ordinary day. I count each conversation as practice for that defense, even when it ends in silence.
Sometimes I’m not sure if the world around me is real, or just a particularly persistent hallucination with good lighting. I squint at the walls, watching for flickers, listening for the faint mechanical hum of a broken simulation. I search, methodically, desperately, for a glitch. A seam. A programming error. Anything. But in the end, the system holds. I give up. Again. It doesn’t let me peek behind the curtain. Not even a crack. Still, I remember. Clearly. There were various moments, when I should’ve disappeared. When I should’ve fallen into the eternal blankness, that gentle fog called forgetting. But I didn’t. I stayed. I’m still here. Or at least, what’s left of me is. Just a residue of thought.
Maybe I’m not allowed to be forgotten. Not by others. Not even by myself. I was born on a meaningless winter morning in what they call southern Germany, in the year of dystopia. My mother raised me alone, assisted by a family that gradually also became mine. I wasn’t industrious. I wasn’t ambitious. While others scribbled in notebooks, I drifted. I welcomed the static. Television, games, books filled with sword-wielding heroes and talking beasts - those were the worlds I chose to dissolve into. I caught my fair share of Pokémon, watched imported anime until the VHSs wore out, and kissed lost girls who also wanted to vanish. Then, like a bug crawling out of its shell, I left.
Berlin, New York, Tokyo. London, Paris, Rome. China, Canada, Turkey. Did I really go? Did my body arrive where my mind wandered? Maybe it all happened on the inside, in that flickering channel only I can tune into. Maybe I’ve never even left the room I was born in. Now I’m here, in a middling Japanese city in the southwest, slipping down alleys, studying the arts of depressed people and machines. After years spent looking inward for the truth of things, I have at last chosen to stop resisting. I tilted my head back, opened my arms, and let the possibilities of this dying planet devour me whole. Whether that counts as escape or extinction, I don’t know. But it feels better than waiting.
I was living on FamilyMart rice balls and low blood sugar dreams. Tokyo nights too hot to sleep and too cold to stay awake. It’s always 3:47 a.m. when you walk into a konbini. The neon light like a kiss from a dying god. The buzz of the fridges like the sigh of someone who’s given up. Meet me at the 7-Eleven by the tracks. She brought a can of Strong Zero and an open wound. Konbinis are churches. Sacred spaces where nobody prays but everyone kneels. Bent before microwave ramen, counting coins. The salaryman, suit crumpled like a used cigarette box. The girl with smeared lipstick, eyeliner like bruises. The boy in a school uniform who’s not going home tonight.
I stood in front of the refrigerated drinks like it was an altar. Pocari Sweat, lemon chu-hi, cold coffee in PET bottles. I bought a rice ball with salmon, a pack of melon bread, and a lighter I didn’t need. My hands were shaking. I liked the way they shook. Made me feel alive, or close to it. Outside, the rain tasted like metal and regret. I sucked it off my lips and watched people slide through the streets like ghosts. There’s a konbini every few blocks, like veins pumping sugar and trash into the city’s bloodstream. Every one of them the same. Open 24/7, eyes never blinking. I can lose myself in them. Not in a romantic way. In the way people vanish into cracks, forgotten until they rot.
We sat under the flickering sign, plastic bags between us, fingers greasy from karaage. I bought condoms and a manga I didn’t understand. She bought cough syrup and a toothbrush. We were both lying. The konbini is where you go when you have nowhere else. When your apartment’s too small, too quiet, too full of memory. When your body wants something. Salt, sugar, heat, nicotine. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Because the lights are always on. Because the shelves are always full. Because the world ends softly, one plastic bag at a time. Let’s stay here forever, she said. Sure. But we both knew, morning was coming. And nothing golden ever stays.
Nowhere else is music as polished, sterile, and profit‑calibrated as in South Korea. Committees inspect each syllable for brand fit. Behind sealed doors singers rehearse lines until they fuse with the beat. Contracts lock smiles, hairstyles, public remarks. Miss a target and the system swaps you out without hesitation. News archives carry terse notes on idols who fade from view or end their lives, reminders that Asia’s most modern stages offer no mercy. Spotlights stay bright, corridors stay narrow, ledgers tally every calorie and error. Songs leave the studio on shipping schedules fixed months ahead. Airbrushed perfection becomes the only permissible residue.
Yet K‑pop is more popular abroad than ever. In the 1990s and early 2000s Japanese acts rode afternoon cartoons like Sailor Moon and Dragon Ball into foreign living rooms. Playlists have since replaced tapes, and the Korean sound now fills the bandwidth once held by Ayumi Hamasaki, Hikaru Utada, and Exile. Overseas charts lump the songs under one tag, but every release arrives with subtitled teasers, dance‑practice clips, and mountains of merchandise. K‑pop convention halls draw visitors who pay to step onto replica sets and recreate favorite poses. In cafés from Berlin to Buenos Aires choruses are hummed without checking the language. Fan edits outrun press releases, and stream counts outstrip population totals. The rise feels deliberate, tracked on dashboards that show demographics in real time.
Driving that ascent is Blackpink, a quartet forged in Seoul from Jisoo, Jennie, Rosé, and Lisa. When their clock‑less days inside some boot camp finally ended, they stepped into debut, and songs like How You Like That, Kill This Love, and Boombayah quickly gathered hundreds of millions of plays. The label issues versions in several languages. Stadiums sell out before posters hit the streets, and Western festivals grant headline slots once reserved for legacy rock. Fans queue overnight for choreography they already learned from TikTok clips. Documentaries trace their triumph but skip the trainees left behind in dim dormitories. Critics wonder how much of the music truly belongs to the idols themselves, the market replies with fresh sponsorships and rising metrics. K‑pop now advances without noting the names already erased, and as their voices fade, I hesitate over the play button, unsure whether one more stream will erase them for good.
I’m collecting places like bruises. My plan is to swallow Kumamoto whole. I want its bars, its noodle shops, its grease-stained counters. I want every damn corner of this city that smells like soy and sweat. I want sushi with my hands, ramen burning my tongue, pizza in alleys that look like everyone forgot they were alleys. I want it messy, I want it cheap, I want it at 2 a.m. when only ghosts and drunk boys are awake. Neon-lit karaoke rooms where someone’s always crying into a mic. Dark izakayas where salarymen tell the same story again and again. Host clubs with smiles made of plastic and eyes like black tea. Coffee shops with maids, with books, with silence thick like syrup.
I’ll go. I’ll sit. I’ll eat. Whether it’s the city center pulsing like a neon heart, or out near the edge where the streets aren’t even part of a map. Morning, noon, dusk, night. I don’t care. Just give me someone beside me. Someone local, someone who knows the places that don’t exist online. They take me there. And I pay in conversation. I pay in time. I give them stories. I give them laughter, a little light. Like that one night with her. We found a hot pot joint downtown. The broth was boiling like we were. Meat, mushrooms, vegetables drowned in soy. We fished them out with chopsticks like tiny survivors. Robot waiters mercilessly rolled around with fake smiles and real pudding.
There’s no better way to know a place than to eat it. No better way to belong than to chew on its streets and sip its secrets. I don’t want the tourist version. I want the version with stains. The version with whispers. I want every bite, every bar, every brokenhearted song in a tavern at midnight. I want Kumamoto to feed me until I forget why I ever came here in the first place. And while the sauce stained our fingers and the sky got darker, we made quiet plans for what came next. Places we haven’t touched yet. Nights we still want to break open. There was this feeling, buzzing just under my ribs, that maybe we’re not just consuming, surviving here. Maybe we’re building something.
Two years have passed since Sina fled from my apartment. We haven’t exchanged a single word since. From what I gathered, she had taken to her newfound freedom in this city with ease, made important connections, and could be seen at every good party attended by high society. Lately, she had started hosting a few shows on a music channel, occasionally modeled for one or two local fashion labels, and was rumored to have flings with musicians, managers, and television personalities. Every now and then, I encountered this new version of her at various events and even photographed her now and then, arm in arm with overbred celebrities. She smiled and ignored me. Always.
A tormenting god seemed to have placed both our fates on a scale that now hung in an uneven balance for me. While Sina’s life had turned, in fast-forward, toward happiness, wealth, and recognition, mine was sinking into a sludge of self-doubt, dissatisfaction, and an ungrateful hatred toward everything and everyone. I woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and heart pounding, because a dream of her had ripped me from sleep like a betrayal. Then I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster or the ticking of the clock, and wondering if she ever still thought of me. Or if I had long since faded into a barely-remembered shadow in her world.
I imagined conversations that would never happen, thought of all the little things only we had understood. Old jokes, shared glances, silent agreement amidst the chaos. All of it was now part of a former life I couldn’t let go of, yet that no longer belonged to me. And while life outside carried on, hectic, loud, merciless, I sat in my darkened room, feeling the weight of the past settle over me like a wet blanket. I was trapped in a state between remembering and forgetting, between longing and resignation. Maybe I had already lost before I even knew I was fighting. Perhaps that was the price of loving someone like Sina - desperately clinging to fake hope while steadily becoming insane.
They said it was for our Japanese Arts Class. Something about sketching wild animals to improve our line sensitivity. But in reality, it was about sunshine, good company, and getting to know some new place - at least for me. I walked to the local zoo on the other side of the city. It took hours, but I didn’t mind. I had my AirPods with some cheesy J-pop on and the sky above me was this deep electric blue, full of possibility. I passed babbling creeks that glittered like broken mirrors and old parks where tiny dogs pulled at their leashes like they had somewhere better to be. Streets were quiet, except for the soft whir of bicycle wheels and wind brushing tree leaves like secrets.
At the zoo, I met my friends. Paint-stained fingers, backpacks full of snacks and sketchbooks. We were a mess, but in a beautiful way. The kind that makes old ladies smile at you like they remember being wild once too. We wandered through the zoo like it was a playground for our eyes. Yeah, the cages were small. But even depressed animals are at least something. Tigers with lazy elegance. Bears scratching their backs against stones like it was their full-time job. Flamingos standing like proud poets in pink. Then came the petting area. Round guinea pigs, soft like clouds, twitchy noses, black and soulless eyes, the kind of small joy that gets under my skin in the best way possible.
We rode the creaky Ferris wheel and watched over the lake, surrounded by red oaks. Then we found these old mechanical animals. We dropped in a coin and zoomed across the pavement like we were five again. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. Lunch under the trees. Bentos from the nearest konbini, crispy chicken, egg rolls, rice sprinkled with furikake. Someone had these chocolate cubes wrapped in gold foil. We shared, laughing with our mouths full. We didn’t talk about work. Or stress. Or anything heavy. Just strolling, eating, laughing. Making something out of the moment. We were together, the sun was shining, and it felt like one of those days I tuck into my memory forever.
Who gives a shit what Hollywood’s golden boys are sweating over in their hot rooms with their endless rewrites and plastic champagne. Because at the beginning of this millennium something happened. Something too soft to scream and too sharp to forget. The best movie of all time slipped through like smoke. Lost in Translation. And all the computer effects and starlet tits in the world can’t erase it. Coked-up executives can pump a movie full of crap and call it love, but it won’t bleed like this one. It won’t ache like this one. This one didn’t even need Los Angeles, New York, or whatever American tax haven dump bent over the lowest - it had Tokyo like a slow pulse under pale skin.
Bob Harris is falling apart. A middle-aged ghost in a five-star coffin. With some whisky in one hand and endless exhaustion in the other. Charlotte is drowning quietly in a fresh white dress, married but lonely like a window in winter. They find each other in silence, in elevator glances, in night-blue bars and half-empty hotel pools. No grand confession. No clichéd strings. Just that quiet panic of two souls brushing against each other in a foreign city that doesn’t care whether you live or die. They don’t fall in love. They dissolve together. Time fucks them over like it always does. But for a few moments, they forget the script. They make up something better. Something real.
Bill Murray doesn’t act. He exists. Scarlett Johansson doesn’t fake. She glows like she’s lit from inside by something bruised and holy. Sofia Coppola doesn’t direct. She whispers through the lens. And somewhere in the distance I can hear Happy End’s Gather the Wind, like an echo that holds this serene fairytale together. Lost in Translation isn’t for people looking for endings. It’s for the ones who stare at strangers in the subway and want to cry. For those who fall in love with cities. With moments. With people they were never supposed to meet. It’s for the broken, the dreamers, the ones who can’t stop remembering things that never quite happened. And yeah. It’s fucking beautiful.
I participated in an art contest. Nothing serious, but it swallowed me whole. The theme was Yokai. Japanese spirits, monsters, the beautiful weirdness that lives between shadows and dreams. For this, I built a canvas with my bare hands in my Japanese Arts class. Cut the wood, stretched the cloth. I wanted it to feel like something real. Not digital. Not fake. Something that bleeds when touched. I used traditional materials. Glue, brushes, powdered pigments that smelled like the inside of a shrine. Nothing fancy. Just old magic. I spent days sitting in our classroom, hunched over it like a secret I couldn’t share. The canvas stared back at me. It whispered things. Or maybe I was just tired.
My yokai was mine. No one else’s. A hybrid born from salt and fear - a cross between umeboshi, that sour, shriveled plum that tastes like a punch in the mouth, and umibozu, the sea ghost with a black, formless body that capsizes ships when no one’s looking. I called it Umebozu. A pun. A joke only the sea would understand. It looks like a plum, but it drowns you. The painting was a colorful homage. An amateurish love letter. I shaped my small world to mirror Katsushika Hokusai’s wooden masterpiece The Great Wave off Kanagawa, but in a more cheerful way. The yokai stared from the center of the storm. Big eyes. Wrinkled skin. A hidden smile that made me happy.
People asked what it meant, and I explained. They smiled. They liked it. Sometimes I imagined the Umebozu slipping off the page, crawling into the real world, hiding in rain puddles or tea cups or behind vending machines late at night. I started seeing it everywhere. The curve of a wave in the river. The color of a bruise on my arm. It followed me home in the folds of my clothes, in the ink under my fingernails. I dreamed of salt and storms and laughing things that lived in the sea. And when I woke up, I missed it. I missed him. My little yokai. My plum ghost. Maybe he was never just a joke. Maybe he was the part of me that never fit, never spoke. But always smiled.
It was one of those unbearably hot summer days, the kind where the sunlight doesn’t just shine but sears itself into my skin, leaving behind a golden haze that clings to me like memory. The air shimmered with heat, thick and heavy, and the evening dragged on like a spell that refused to break. Even the shadows seemed to glow. The night stayed distant, as though held back by some invisible force. Eva sat beside me, her gaze adrift, following the tender figure of the dark-haired, olive-skinned waiter with a softness in her eyes that seemed to forget I was there. I stirred my drink absentmindedly, poking at the floating ice cubes with my straw, hoping they’d give way. They didn’t.
A group of tourists stumbled past, half-drunk and over-sunned, their laughter bouncing off the narrow walls of the old street. Their presence was obnoxious, and yet something about their loud joy made me ache. I watched them disappear into the light-drenched distance and felt a strange kind of longing - not for their company, but for their carelessness. How’s Adam? I rasped finally, my voice rough from the dry air and disuse. I didn’t really want to know, but the silence between us had become too loud, pressing in on my temples. So much time had passed since we’d last met, and still I couldn’t muster any real curiosity about her life - or about the man who was part of it.
Good, she said, and that was all. A single syllable, flat and polished, as though rehearsed. It hung there a moment before she volleyed it back to me: “And how’s Sina?” Her name, that name, struck like a slap, unexpected and sharp. It shot through me like electricity, woke something up I had been trying to forget. My fingers twitched, and in a careless second, the glass slipped. It hit the concrete with a crystalline crack. Cocktail, ice, fruit - all of it sprawled out in a mess of sticky color and shards. It was a small disaster, and it felt like relief. I stared at it, oddly satisfied, then looked up and smiled - the kind of crooked, absent smile that doesn’t quite know what it’s for.
I was drifting. Low blood sugar. Air like soup. I hadn’t eaten all day, or maybe I had, I don’t remember. I was walking through a supermarket in Japan, one of those blinding clean ones, all neon light and weird elevator music. Cold, too cold. Fish eyes watching me from slabs of ice. And then there it was. Whale. Rae flesh like wet velvet. Whispering to me from behind cellophane. I stared at it the way I stare at someone I’ve seen in a dream before. Wrong and perfect at the same time. Bought it like buying a secret. No one stopped me. No one said a word. The machine at the checkout beeped after I fed it with some yen. And then the small pieces of a slaughtered giant were mine.
Back home, the silence was loud. I didn’t cook it. Just opened the package, dropped the slices on some shredded carrots and radish, squeezed a lemon wedge like a little prayer. Ate them with some metal chopsticks. They tasted like horse. Like blood and memory. I thought about the whales. I thought about the protests and the documentaries and the guilt people wear like expensive jackets. I thought about extinction and betrayal and all the things I’m not supposed to do. But mostly I thought: When else? When else would I ever get to know this feeling, this very specific wrongness melting in my mouth like ice cream? I ate the whole thing. Slowly. Like a ritual. Like a dare.
And when it was done, I just sat there. No music. No talking. Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of my own breath, sticky and strange, rising and falling like I was learning how to breathe for the first time. There was something curling in my gut, not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction - something older. Animal. Primitive. Like I’d remembered something I shouldn’t have. Next time, I want to eat dolphin. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe to feel worse. Maybe to feel better. Or maybe just to feel anything at all. To scratch some unreachable itch deep inside me. It’s not about taste. It’s not even about curiosity anymore. It’s about going somewhere I can’t come back from.
Neo-Tokyo is a wound. It breathes smoke and vomits neon. It’s filthy. It’s alive. The streets are soaked in broken dreams. Syringes, sex, safe hopelessness. Skyscrapers scream in color, pink and blue and acid green. And deep inside this cyberpunk hellhole, built onto the ruins of a wiped out city, lives Tetsuo. He was a boy, like so many others. Then a special kind of magic awakened inside him. Power. Screaming, impossible power. Not even he could hold it. And then the men in the shadows came. The ones in coats. With needles. With wires. With orders. Contain him, they said. Because they were afraid, of Akira. Always Akira. That name. That myth. That black hole of a boy.
Kaneda loved Tetsuo like a brother. Rode like a god on that red beast of a bike. Fast enough to forget. Tough enough to survive. They were kids. Rebels. Orphans. Dust. Racing through trash-light and chemical rain, chasing adrenaline, chasing heat. No dreams, just the hum of the engine and the static on the radio. They didn’t ask for meaning. They just wanted to burn. Then the city turned. Started watching them. Started whispering their names into the wires. Until the streets swallowed Tetsuo whole. Split him open, filled him with electricity, madness, grief. Not love, not anymore. Just power. Too much. Way too much. Kaneda couldn’t reach him.
Akira bled into the eyes of a nation. It was ugly. Beautiful. Real. Black ink on white paper like veins bursting under skin. Katsuhiro Otomo didn’t tell the future. It was the future. Then, the screen couldn’t hold it. The movie exploded. Cells melted. Worlds shifted. We all got infected. No one was safe. Not the artists. Not the kids. Not the ones who thought they’d seen it all. Neo-Tokyo became a virus. A neon disease that glittered in the dark and tasted like sugar, sluts, and static. I saw it once, and it lived in me. Curled up behind my teeth. Waited in my spine. Everything changed after that. They said it was fiction. But it was prophecy. And we’re still catching up.
Sometimes I’m not sure if the world around me is real, or just a particularly persistent hallucination with good lighting. I squint at the walls, watching for flickers, listening for the faint mechanical hum of a broken simulation. I search, methodically, desperately, for a glitch. A seam. A programming error. Anything. But in the end, the system holds. I give up. Again. It doesn’t let me peek behind the curtain. Not even a crack. Still, I remember. Clearly. There were various moments, when I should’ve disappeared. When I should’ve fallen into the eternal blankness, that gentle fog called forgetting. But I didn’t. I stayed. I’m still here. Or at least, what’s left of me is. Just a residue of thought.
Maybe I’m not allowed to be forgotten. Not by others. Not even by myself. I was born on a meaningless winter morning in what they call southern Germany, in the year of dystopia. My mother raised me alone, assisted by a family that gradually also became mine. I wasn’t industrious. I wasn’t ambitious. While others scribbled in notebooks, I drifted. I welcomed the static. Television, games, books filled with sword-wielding heroes and talking beasts - those were the worlds I chose to dissolve into. I caught my fair share of Pokémon, watched imported anime until the VHSs wore out, and kissed lost girls who also wanted to vanish. Then, like a bug crawling out of its shell, I left.
Berlin, New York, Tokyo. London, Paris, Rome. China, Canada, Turkey. Did I really go? Did my body arrive where my mind wandered? Maybe it all happened on the inside, in that flickering channel only I can tune into. Maybe I’ve never even left the room I was born in. Now I’m here, in a middling Japanese city in the southwest, slipping down alleys, studying the arts of depressed people and machines. After years spent looking inward for the truth of things, I have at last chosen to stop resisting. I tilted my head back, opened my arms, and let the possibilities of this dying planet devour me whole. Whether that counts as escape or extinction, I don’t know. But it feels better than waiting.
I swore to myself I’d wring every last drop of experience from this burning, breathing, chaotic place called Kumamoto. Time is a cruel lover, always ready to leave, so I decided to chase after moments like they were pills I could swallow to stay alive just a little longer. When my friend asked if I wanted to go to a classical concert with her, I said yes before my thoughts even had time to catch up. It was one of those days where the sun painted everything gold, like the whole world had been dipped in light. We’d just eaten something amazing. Rice soft as clouds, soup that tasted like secrets passed down from grandmothers, miso clinging to the corners of our mouths like a gentle goodbye kiss.
We walked slowly, almost lazily, like the city belonged to us. Bustling sidewalks, vending machines humming like they were keeping some rhythm only locals understood, children chasing pigeons, pigeons chasing dreams. The concert hall rose up like something quite sacred. Glass, stone, elegance. Inside, it was full of families. Kids cheering, parents looking tired but kind. Onstage, a young man played the flute like it was an extension of his body. First came classical pieces, and then, like a soft rebellion, the familiar notes of My Neighbor Totoro. The air changed. Ghibli music isn’t just music. It’s memories. It’s growing up and not realizing it. It’s wonder wrapped in bittersweet sadness.
A woman stepped forward, her voice strong, deep, and fearless. She sang with her whole body. Then a child, probably no older than twelve, took the mic and trembled out a few songs, eyes wide, voice like paper folding itself into cranes. And then something beautiful and absurd happened. People started dancing. Singing. Laughing like they were drunk on something better than alcohol. We were all kids again. Culture isn’t a museum. It isn’t glass cases and hushed tones. It’s loud, alive, and full of rhythm. It’s messy. It’s fun. It’s the sound of childhood slipping through a flute, turning strangers into something softer than friends. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel alone.
When I come to again, Paula has her arms tightly wrapped around me, pressing a glass of water to my face. Another one of your nightmares, babe? she asks softly. Her large breasts sway with every movement. The sheer presence of her being, the kisses, the stench of cheap perfume mixed with neglected hygiene, all of it intensifies my aversion to her with every shared breath. The mere fact that she has taken Sina’s place as my nightly companion leaves not the slightest doubt in my mind that something monstrously wrong is unfolding in the fabric of the universe, and that it falls upon me, and me alone, to restore the balance of our crumbling civilization. A hero is born.
I have to find her, I say, taking a gulp of cold water. She stormed off over three months ago, screaming with rage and sobbing with hatred, and ever since, these visions have haunted me. They’re making me sick. The room is soaked in dark, bluish-black hues. A few used syringes lie scattered beside the bed. My skin is drenched in sweat, and as I vomit off the balcony, I fantasize in vivid detail, by the thousands, how she dies. How she suffers. How helpless I am to stop it. A storm is coming. She’s your best friend, you fucking cunt! I suddenly scream at Paula, cursing the day I ever let her into my life. The endless late-night talks, the weeping, the repeated apologies, the regret-filled sex.
Where did she even come from? And since when has she been here? She seems like a ghost that snuck in through a crack in the wall - something shapeless and persistent, like mold or guilt. I mix up reality with madness. I can’t clearly tell anymore what’s actually happening and what part of my story is just playing out inside my decaying mind. Drugs, music, girls. And through it all, there’s only one thing I really want. To have Sina back. Her laugh still echoes in the corners of this rotting apartment, her eyes stare back at me from every single surface. Paula lingers, like a parasite feeding off the ruins of what used to be love. There’s a hole in the world - and it’s shaped like Sina.
The city is opening up to me like a fairytale. At first, it was gray, anonymous, all edges and noise. But now it’s bleeding color - flashing signs, temple eaves glowing under dusk, vending machines humming like lullabies. Kumamoto. It wasn’t mine, not at all. But I started stealing pieces of it. Slowly. Every time I open a new door or take a wrong turn, the city breathes a little louder. I’m beginning to hear its rhythm. Every day, something reveals itself. The blank spots in my head, those static-filled no-places - they’re finally vanishing. They become convenience stores glowing at midnight, playgrounds with rusty swings, alleys where cats stare like they know what I’m hiding.
I found people too. Accidental encounters. Strangers who became storylines who became friends. Faces, voices, footsteps beside mine. They teach me things. We walk this city like it’s a puzzle we’re trying to solve with our bodies. They show me corners I wouldn’t have dared to enter alone. We move through it, through each other, like we belong nowhere. The city never waited for me. But somehow it lets me in. It stares back at me with curiosity, like it’s trying to figure out what kind of ghost I am. Every corner hides something either heartbreakingly old or ridiculously new. Shrines behind cafés. Salarymen passed out on benches. High schoolers eating fries like it’s a ritual.
We visited a mall the other day. Huge. Unapologetic. Floating over the train station like a spaceship made of steel and fluorescent dreams. On top of it, above the noise and sorrows, red broth was bubbling in a hot pot like a fever. Meat curling. Mushrooms blooming. Vegetables losing their color like they were giving up dreams. The city sprawled outside the window, buildings layered like old scars. And we sat there above it all, dipping, chewing, and talking about everything and nothing. We burned our tongues and fears at the shabu-shabu place. We laughed. And we promised not to waste a moment, not to go quiet. That day felt like part of the city decided to remember us back.
I always fall in love with the kind of person who slips through my fingers like smoke. The ones who never carry keys, who don’t answer messages, who makes me believe their body is a poem and their soul is some wild animal, untamed and glowing. The people who live like their veins pulse with the beat of freedom - mental, physical, cosmic freedom. I meet them and suddenly my chest is no longer my own. One touch. One crooked smile. One kiss that tastes like danger and gum. I hope, no, I ache, to be the one. The one they stop for. The one that makes them pack away their suitcase heart. I want to be the reason they stay, feel at home, see me as their safe place in the chaos.
I hope that maybe, just maybe, they’ll throw their rules into the river for me, swear forever with breathless mouths, stay still. But it never works like that. It’s always the same stupid movie. I play the fool. They play the wind. What did we learn way too young? One of us is Ernie. The other? Bert. Always Bert. The one who stays behind to clean up the mess. Ernie and I watched 500 Days of Summer in a dusty, half-broken cinema that smelled like artificial popcorn and ghosts of teenage sex. Zooey Deschanel floated through the screen like cotton candy laced with cyanide. Joseph Gordon-Levitt blinked too slowly, like someone who still believes in mixtapes, warmth, and soulmates.
The film was beautiful in a dangerous way - about a butterfly and the fool who tried to pin it to a wall. About love that doesn’t love back. About how hope resurrects itself like some dumb zombie, only to get its head smashed again. Over and over. The songs tasted like cherry coke and breakups. The girl and I, barely touching, burning with that weird early-stage electricity. We laughed until tears ran down. We whispered insults at the screen, like children pretending not to care. Bitch, we said with reverence, heartbreak, and recognition. The film wasn’t a love story. It was a confession. A warning. A dare. Perfect for a first date. Perfect for ruining me just enough to want another one.
Being in Japan feels like a dream on loop - neon syrup, dazed smiles, and a never-ending maze of misconception. I think I’m free, that I’m just wandering past Tokyo’s electric veins, Osaka’s late-night sighs, and Kyoto’s soft ghosts. But soon, really, really soon, this particular feeling appeared out of nowhere. A tickle on the back of my neck. Not fear. Not paranoia. Something subtler. The feeling of being watched. Observed. Loved, maybe, in a machine-made way. They’re everywhere. It doesn't matter if I’m lost in the middle of Shibuya’s famous crossings, walking through a rain-washed mountain village where even the wind feels exalted, or just crying behind the supermarket.
It’s 2 p.m. or 4 a.m. or some haunted hour in between. In the heat of summer, in the ache of winter. Alone in a forest, or swallowed by a crowd of strangers. They always find me. The machines. Vending machines. Jidouhanbaiki. They glow like altar fires, humming softly to themselves, full of answers I didn’t ask for. They don't just sell drinks. That would be too easy. They whisper temptations in aluminum and plastic - icy lemon soda, scorching black coffee, milk tea with floating pearls. But they go further. They offer me exotic fruits sealed in glossy wrapping. Used underwear, when I’m feeling lonely. Ties, raincoats, and umbrellas like forgotten lovers. They’re more than machines.
They're quiet survivors, like junkies who got clean but never quite forgot the high. The convenience stores might be the heartbeat of Japan, but the vending machines are the blood - rushing, steady, always there. They never close. They never talk back. They offer me something warm in the cold and something cold when I’m burning. Sometimes, they look like art. And sometimes, they are art. Metal dreams stacked with color-coded longing, waiting for me on every corner like a past version of myself who still believes in miracles. I don’t know if they’re watching me. Or if they are me. But I keep pressing buttons. And they keep giving me what I didn’t know I needed.
Are you happy? the girl asked me, her voice light, innocent, as we wandered hand in hand through the empty streets of a long-forgotten Berlin. No whisper of wind, no hum of life, no sign of another soul. The war had swallowed everything, voices, laughter, the heartbeat of the city, leaving behind only silence and ruins, the ghostly remains of a world set ablaze. The white clouds, defiant against the deep blue sky, drifted over the skeletal remains of what was once a glorious city. These streets had been alive, pulsing with stories, with dreams. Now, no one had survived the endless night. My battered corpse lay somewhere beneath the wreckage, forgotten, dust among dust. Forever.
We turned into a nearby park, our steps muffled against the cracked stone path, lined with dead trees that reached toward the sky like twisted fingers. The girl’s pale dress shimmered in the midday sun, and for a fleeting second, the honesty in her smile made me forget the weight pressing against my chest, the ache embedded in my bones. We laughed, we played, and for a moment, it was like we had never vanished. But then she stopped. Her arm stretched forward, fingers trembling as she pointed ahead. I followed her gaze. At the far end of the path stood a woman, naked, strawberry-haired, her skin waxy, her body covered in wounds that had stopped bleeding long ago.
I ran toward her, desperate, but as I neared, I slowed. Her eyes were vacant, a void deeper than the ruins, her lips parted as if caught mid-scream. The clouds ignited, turning into embers that rained down like dying stars. The ground split open, an abyss yawning wide, hungry. I remembered the fire, the heat consuming flesh, the sound of bones breaking. The weight of rubble pressing down, crushing, suffocating. The screams that had once filled these streets before they, too, were devoured by everlasting silence. The girl’s grip on my hand tightened. Are you happy? she asked again, her voice no longer light. I turned to face her. And I saw the truth now. She had never been alive, either.
Kumamoto Castle rises against the sky. We stand at its base, looking up. A monument of samurai, sieges, fires. The earthquake, when the ground split open and the walls crumbled. They rebuilt it. Stone by stone, piece by piece, putting history back together. Some parts new, some parts old, all of it held together by something invisible. Effort. Memory. Time. The air feels different here, charged with something that isn’t quite present but isn’t gone either. We walk along the stone walls, stopping where the lines blur between past and present. Some of the stones are darker, weathered, soaked with rain, with sun, with war. Others are newer, cleaner, set into place with precision and care.
Inside, the past lingers behind glass. Swords, armor, old rifles that still seem to hum with gunpowder and blood. A mask stares at us, its iron grin sharp, empty. Behind it, a face once breathed, once sweated, once fought. Now it’s just lacquer and metal, something to be looked at, something to be remembered. Names carved into plaques, letters written by hands. Words fade, ink smudges, but the feeling stays. The smell of iron, of old paper, of wood polished smooth by time. Outside, the world is loud again. The food market is alive, thick with the smell of frying oil, of soy sauce, of something sweet drifting in the warm air. Steam rises from skewers, from bowls of noodles, from sizzling pans.
We find a small shop selling fried croquettes with minced horse meat inside. The first bite is hot, rich, and unfamiliar. The second, deeper. The third lingers, something heavy, something that doesn’t quite belong to the present. The wind shifts, carrying voices - chatter, laughter, orders being called out from behind the stalls. But beneath it all, something else, something older. Hoofbeats in the dirt. The distant clash of metal. The low murmur of men waiting for battle. The taste of salt, of iron, of something unspoken. Night falls, and the castle glows in the dark. It stands tall again. The sky stretches wide above it, deep and endless, as if history itself could dissolve into the black.
Sasha Kurmaz won’t be pinned down. Not in a box, not in a label, not even in a single, clean sentence. He slips through categories like smoke through cracked windows, leaving behind a scent of something burning. Perverse voyeur? A prophet of wasted youth? Bisexual excess in human form? His camera eats the world whole. Flesh, neon, asphalt, ecstasy - anything that shivers in the light. Anything that looks like it might bite back. And somehow, no matter how raw, how grimy, how reckless, it’s absolutely beautiful. The kind of beauty that feels like it shouldn’t be, like it was never meant to be seen this way. But here it is, captured, framed, undeniable. It’s real, it’s true, it’s us.
What matters most is the moment when something ugly becomes hypnotic, when filth turns into poetry, when the world strips down and stands there, raw and waiting. Sasha measures cocks, dissects monkeys, puts a swastika onto the table before snorting it up. Not for shock, not for cheap thrills - there’s something more, something honest. He shoots what’s there. The things people don’t want to see, but can’t stop looking at. The kind of images that brand themselves deep into my brain and never leave. And what can I do? Nothing. I just stand here, watch, feel it crawl under my skin. The kind of filth that doesn’t wash off. The kind that makes me want more, more, more.
The camera keeps rolling. It’s a silent witness, an accomplice, never flinching, never looking away. Sasha’s work is way too intense, too electric, too alive to turn away from. He moves through the world like a fever dream, sweat-drenched, intoxicating, a little sickly sweet. He pulls me in without a word, makes me complicit without asking for permission. There’s a kind of violence in that, but also something tender, something disturbingly intimate. A whispered confession that no one remembers making. Maybe he’ll let me in one day. Maybe he never will. Maybe I’m already there, trapped forever inside the frame, watching myself through his eyes, and I just haven’t realized it yet.
Tokyo swallows me in its heat. The asphalt quivers, glass panes tremble. Neon lights flicker in my eyes like broken memories. I drift with the crowd, let myself be pushed, my body feverish, my head full of everything and nothing. Then I’m inside - inside the world of teamLab. Borderless - no walls, no doors, no boundaries. Only light. Waves of color ripple across the floor, over my shoes, over my hands. The warmth of the room caresses my skin, as if the light itself had fingers. I walk on. A dark hall. Then - explosions of flowers, meadows rising from shadows, pollen drifting in slow motion. I raise my hand, and the room shifts with me. My body is a line in a poem writing itself.
I run through the rain of the artificial night, lights bursting on my tongue like candy. My reflection fractures into glassy surfaces - thousands of versions of me staring back. Girls made of light, boys made of shadows, ghosts in a city that never stands still. Someone laughs, a sound like an echo from a dream. I lie down on the floor, looking up into the nothingness, flooded with color. No beginning, no end - only this moment. My heart beats to the rhythm of the light. I close my eyes. Tokyo whispers. And I’m weightless. I dive deeper into the colors, as if I could drown in an ocean of light. But it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like being lost, like time has stopped chasing me.
The walls breathe, the floor pulses, and I forget myself in the movement, in the silence, in this odd dance of pixels and dust. Everything is near and distant at once, like the sound of a song I’ve never heard but somehow remember. Every step reshapes the world around me, painting a new image onto the canvas of space. A flower blooms beneath my feet, and in its petals, I see myself - fractured yet whole, shifting through all my contradictions. I turn in circles. Colors weave and unwind, vanish only to return. The light makes my thoughts flicker, my heart jumps to the beat of a melody only space knows. It’s a dream that never ends. Or maybe it’s the moment I finally wake up.
Whenever we had a fight, I wanted to finish it on Sina’s body. She closed her eyes. Behind her lids, a world of chaos seemed to unfold. Her tears ran without pause, as if they had never known anything else, as if they had been waiting for this moment all along. How had she ended up in this place? Love and suffering, once inseparable, now indistinguishable, wore robes of velvet, burying Sina’s battered body in the wreckage of her own dreams. I had slipped into her mind with the words of a clear night and the organs of a rebel. Diven by amusement, recklessness, and fear, I desecrated everything she had ever believed in, twisting her rosy devotion into something unrecognizable.
Nothing struck Sina’s youth as cruelly as the slow but steady realization that she could not ease my suffering, that she was powerless against the weight of a world I had summoned into existence through my own despair. Neither through her love, nor through her chest, nor through the desperate offering of her trust. Small, gray fears gnawed at her from within, carving out hollow spaces where silence echoed endlessly. Every happy moment she had ever known was dulled, drained of its color, swallowed by loneliness. She tried to cling to the remnants of a previous happiness, but it was like trying to catch mist in her hands - fleeting, insubstantial, vanishing between her fingers.
All her life, Sina had told herself she was special. That justice would tilt the scales in her favor. That the little girl with the sparkling eyes would find herself standing at the end of a path lined with purpose, waiting for a conclusion. But as the days passed, each one took a piece of her faith, and soon, only slivers remained. Her tears tasted bitter, yet she smiled - a quiet, unwavering deception, as if she owed the world one last illusion before she disappeared. And when Sina felt the breeze of the approaching train brush against her skin, she opened her eyes, exhaled the last of her resistance, and surrendered to the tracks with the weightless grace of a soul that had already shattered.
If I want to experience Japan at its most exuberant, I must venture into the heart of Tokyo after sunset. Ikebukuro is the Sodom and Gomorrah of this East Asian island. Here, night after night, the pent-up energy of identical-suited salary men is unleashed in its fullest. In the countless bars and restaurants of this neighborhood - renowned far beyond Japan’s borders thanks to films, novels, and video games - people eat, drink, and penetrate each other until the first subway train runs again in the early morning. Ikebukuro is a place of love - whether real, fake, or simply for sale. Anyone left alone in the glow of the colorful billboards must be doing something seriously wrong.
Ikebukuro never sleeps. A district of electricity and nicotine, cheap cocktails, and burnt-out light bulbs, trapped between the wings of the Yamanote Line. The neon lights twitch like frayed nerves on the brink of collapse. Pachinko balls rain against metal walls, the city breathes fast and greedy, like someone who has smoked too many cigarettes yet still craves another. I wander through the streets, my eyes half-closed, half-awake. The air smells of ramen, of unspoken words, of hot plastic and the dreams of those who seek refuge here. Girls with gum-sticky lips linger outside love hotels. Boys in cheap suits lean against walls, waiting for something that may never come.
In Sunshine City, the entire town is reflected in the glass facades. There is a point up there from which I can see everything: The chaos, the glimmer, the people losing themselves. Stay, the city whispers. Here, I can be anything - a ghost, a shadow, a song that never stops playing. Ikebukuro is an ember that never burns out. I dance through the light, lose myself in the shadows, and observe the mayhem. The city murmurs stories in my ear - tales of broken promises and nights that never wanted to end. Somewhere behind the flickering signs and steaming food stalls lies another life. But my feet remain stuck here, as if the asphalt had long since decided that I should never leave.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had grown up in Japan rather than Germany. After decades of consuming anime, manga, and video games, this question doesn’t seem too far-fetched. Would I still celebrate Japan and its culture with the same enthusiasm if I hadn’t been born in Germany but instead on the other side of the world? Would I even find myself drawn to German pop culture the way I am to Japanese pop culture now? Would I secretly listen to Helene Fischer, convinced that her music is some sort of guilty pleasure? Or would my interests have taken an entirely different turn, shaped by an upbringing immersed in Japanese society?
Miri Matsufuji is a photographer from Tokyo, someone I once had the chance to meet in person. It happened on the third floor of Tower Records in Shibuya, a place I had wandered into on a whim. She was there with an American friend, showcasing her latest self-published photo booklet at a stand set up specifically for independent photographers. I remember thinking how effortlessly cool she looked, as if she had stepped right out of one of her own photographs. It’s not uncommon for Japanese creatives to be seen in public alongside Western-looking people, whether as a fashion statement, a sign of international connections, or simply as part of a cosmopolitan lifestyle.
Miri is living the kind of reality I used to imagine for myself. Whether that reality is as great as it appears in my mind is, of course, debatable. After all, no life is as glamorous as it seems through the lens of a camera. But in her photos, Japanese youth always looks vibrant and full of life, as if every day were a scene from a coming-of-age film. Miri’s work reflects reality while stripping it of its heaviness, making everyday life appear both colorful and cinematic, almost like a dream that still feels tangible. And that’s exactly what I love about her photography - it’s real, yet it never takes itself too seriously, balancing truth and beauty in a way that makes the ordinary feel extraordinary.
One of the favorite pastimes of people here in Kyushu is asking me about my favorite Japanese food. My answer depends on the day, but I usually say ramen. And no, I don’t mean the cheap instant kind you find in supermarkets. I mean real ramen - made with real ingredients. The kind you find in a tiny restaurant tucked away in some unknown back alley. Nothing revives me more at night than a hot, steaming bowl of soup filled with noodles, meat, vegetables, mushrooms, and a soft-boiled egg. And because I spent years addicted to Sriracha and thoroughly destroyed my taste buds, I pile on as much chili powder and fresh garlic as the Japanese immigration authorities will allow.
Getting into ramen is like diving into a rabbit hole of broths, noodle varieties, and regional specialties. Originally, wheat noodle soup came from China, but in the early 20th century, Japan adopted it and made it their own. After World War II, when wheat imports from the U.S. increased, ramen became a staple. Today, every region has its own version. Some shops simmer their broth for over 24 hours to achieve the perfect flavor. Others focus on experimental fusion creations - something that fascinates me as much as the food itself. I’ve tried quite a few bowls of ramen, and despite all the variations, one truth remains: A good bowl of ramen always feels like coming home.
On my trip to Fukuoka, I couldn’t miss the chance to try the city’s most famous dish - one that’s beloved far beyond Japan’s borders: Tonkotsu ramen. This broth is the opposite of subtle - thick, smooth, and packed with umami. The secret? Pork bones simmered for hours until they break down, infusing the soup with that unmistakable milky richness. The noodles are thinner than in other types of ramen, allowing them to absorb the heavy broth. It’s served with tender pork belly, fresh spring onions, and a creamy egg. If you know what you’re doing, you order a noodle refill. My sensei and I certainly did enjoy it at 大砲ラーメン. Tonkotsu ramen isn’t just a dish - it’s an addiction.
That night, I had a terrifying dream. My breath was uneven, my pulse still hammering in my ears as if I had been running for my life. I staggered into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under my unsteady steps. Pouring milk and cornflakes into a bowl, I found myself staring blankly at the counter, yet all I could see was her cadaverous white face - pressed tightly against me as I screamed halfway across the city. I glanced down at myself, catching glimpses of dark stains. Was it blood? It coated half my body - or it seemed to. But as I stepped closer to the dim kitchen light, the illusion unraveled, revealing itself as nothing more than a figment, a cynical trick of shadow and reflection.
I dipped the spoon into the bowl. The clinking of metal against porcelain grounding me for a moment. As I brought a mouthful of cereal to my lips, I saw them again. The faces of the night. Clinging on my bottle, the air had been thick with heat, sweat, and music. The people around me had whispered in hushed, knowing tones. She had disappeared from Chan Shin with some guy, her steps unsteady, her words slurred beyond recognition. Too drunk to think. Too far gone to fight back. The details blurred in the chaos, but one detail remained sharp in my mind - I had screamed for her. Her name, again and again, as if the louder I howled, the more I could will her back to me, to safety.
I turned the corner. There she was. Lying in a filthy backyard, the world around her frozen forever. Every feeling in the universe crashed into me at once. My vision tunneled, my breath caught in my throat as I ran to her, words tumbling from my lips in frantic desperation. They were garbled, meaningless, yet I cried them anyway, hoping they would reach her, hoping they would bring her back. The faces surrounding us melted into a vast puddle of pity as I held her lifeless husk, squeezing so tightly that everything around me shattered. My lungs burned. I choked on blood and tears, and the last thing that seared itself into my mind were her soulless eyes. The doorbell rang.
I adore good typography. The bigger, bolder, and more brutal it is, the more I fall in love with it. Whether classically placed on a snow-white background or chaotically scattered across colorful illustrations, typography is truly effective only when it snaps people out of their wandering thoughts the moment they see it. As British artist Mark Boulton aptly observed: Most people think typography is about fonts. Most designers think typography is about fonts. Typography is more than that, it’s expressing language through type. Placement, composition, typechoice. And as part of our ongoing design studies, we took a trip to Fukuoka to visit an annual typography exhibition.
Nestled on the northern shore of Japan’s beautiful Kyushu Island, Fukuoka is a vibrant city where tradition and modernity blend seamlessly. Known for its welcoming atmosphere, it’s a haven for food lovers, with steaming bowls of Hakata ramen served at bustling yatai street stalls. Beyond its culinary delights, Fukuoka boasts serene temples like the iconic Kushida Shrine, sandy beaches, and a quite thriving art scene. With walkable streets, sleek shopping districts, and a reputation for being one of Japan’s most livable cities, Fukuoka offers curious visitors like us a chance to experience Japanese renowned warmth and innovation, all wrapped in an irresistible coastal charm.
The exhibition itself was a vibrant exploration of Asian and Western typography created by students and masters alike. Whether featured in books, on posters, or even online, the famous Japanese dedication to perfection was evident in every single project. Personally, I was especially drawn to works that made bold use of hiragana, katakana, and kanji, creating a modern form of calligraphy that made my Japanophile heart beat faster. After viewing the exhibition, we had the freedom to explore Fukuoka on our own. We first hopped on a bus to the city center, treated ourselves to a bowl of hot ramen, and then wandered through the streets to soak in more of this enchanting city.
Actually, what we all want in life is the feeling we get when we binge-watch the first three or four Harry Potter movies. It’s warm. And adventurous. And full of friendship. If there’s a perfect emotion, it’s exactly that mix. Unfortunately, even the most beautiful feelings fade over time. But I’ve found a way to revitalize them. We simply take the most beautiful, heartfelt, and cozy elements of the now somewhat tarnished Harry Potter epic, combine them with another beloved world, like Sailor Moon, and voilà! We’ve created something new, packed with the same wonderful, nostalgic, almost legendary emotions. How does that work? It’s simple: With Little Witch Academia!
The story follows Akko, sent to Luna Nova Magical Academy to study magic. The catch? She’s totally clueless about magic - she can’t even ride a broom! With her friends Lotte, Sucy, and the talented yet arrogant Diana, plus the mysterious teacher Ursula, Akko navigates the academy’s adventures and uncovers ancient mysteries tied to her destiny. The show thrives on quirky characters like Constanze, the robot-obsessed German, Jasminka, the gluttonous Russian, and Amanda, the mischievous American. Akko herself is a feisty, impatient, cake-loving brunette version of Usagi Tsukino. Her infinite determination turns hopeless situations around, solving mysteries others overlook.
The Luna Nova Academy is essentially our beloved Hogwarts reimagined, with eccentric potion classes, sealed-off corridors, and lurking dangers. Each episode is packed with tons of fun: A magical competition gone awry, a grumpy Yeti, a debt-collecting dragon, or even a resurrected skeleton. Boredom isn’t an option. And although the small adventures are the most entertaining, a great mystery casts its shadow over every episode. Little Witch Academia gets so many things right, and we can all learn from Akko’s boundless optimism and zest for life. Without her, it wouldn’t be half as fun. If you’re a fan of Sailor Moon and Harry Potter, you’ll love Little Witch Academia. Because I did.
The lanterns outside 老之倉庫 glowed with a soft, amber light, cutting through the early evening haze like scattered fireflies. It was the kind of place you’d pass a hundred times without noticing until someone told you it was worth stepping inside. That someone, in my case, was a group of classmates from Sojo University. After the school festival, they had decided we should celebrate here. Inside, the air was warm, alive with the hum of conversation and the low, melodic clinking of glasses. The aroma of hops blended with the scent of food. I found myself at a long table, surrounded by faces that were both familiar and foreign, a constellation of new friendships still forming.
You don’t drink? someone asked, their tone more curious than judgmental. No, but I’m here for the company. This answer seemed to satisfy them, and soon the table’s attention turned back to ordering. Golden drafts arrived, frothy and luminous, like small suns. I watched as my friends lifted their glasses in a toast, their voices rising together in a symphony of celebration. Kanpai! It wasn’t the beer that mattered. It was the act of sharing, of weaving ourselves into the rhythm of the evening. My oolong tea’s earthy bitterness grounded me, a counterpoint to the effervescence of the room. As I sipped, I thought about how people often seek connection through what they consume.
The conversation ebbed and flowed. Stories about the festival, plans for the weekend, fragments of dreams shared in halting English and Japanese. Outside, the city exhaled softly, the sounds of distant cars and bicycles slipping through the cracks of the night. By the time we left, the lanterns had grown brighter, their glow pooling on the cobblestones like liquid amber. I felt lighter somehow, not because of what I had drunk but because of the time spent together, the threads of connection woven tighter. As we slowly walked to one of Kumamoto’s karaoke clubs, I realized that Ichinosoko wasn’t just a place to drink, it was a place to belong, even if only for an evening.
Sina was celebrating her 18th birthday at Bar 25. We were dancing tightly to the pounding bass, our bodies swaying in sync. In the restroom, two girls begged me to take their photos. The taller one knelt before me, and as she worked, I stared blankly at the shiny white tiles on the wall. Can we go home? Sina asked quietly when I returned to her. That night, her tears wouldn’t stop. Why do I even do this shit to myself? she cried. She hurled a basket of apples at me, shouting hysterically. I love you, you jerk, but you’re a coward, a moocher, a hypocrite. You hate this world but exploit it. You despise those people but fuck them. You loathe these drugs but snort one line after another.
She flung one of our packages against the wall. The little white specks floated to the floor like snow. I sat on the bed, watching her tirade with a detached calmness. This world means nothing to you, I mean nothing to you, love means nothing to you. How can I give myself to someone who doesn’t believe in love? Explain that to me!I’m not going to answer a trick question, I said flatly. Sina screamed in frustration, stomped into the kitchen, and returned wielding a large knife. She furiously began stabbing the pillows and slashing the bedding. Feathers erupted into the air, swirling around the room like a storm. Sina looked like a wild, beautiful, naked angel caught in an explosion.
I have to get out of here! Sina shouted. She put on some clothes, shoved a few belongings into her pink backpack, and stormed out of the apartment. By the time I snapped out of my stupor and ran into the hallway, the door was slamming shut behind her. I raced to the balcony, scanning the dark street below. I spotted her hair bobbing in the distance and yelled after her: Sina, where are you going? No answer. She disappeared into the next subway station. I stumbled back into the apartment. Sina’s phone lay on the bed. I clutched one of her panties and sank into the shredded pillows, nestling my face against her faint scent. Closing my eyes, I let the night swallow me whole.
Over the weekend, my Japanese university transformed into a vibrant school festival. Students from all faculties buzzed around the campus like busy bees, setting up tents, stages, and stalls, and filling them with life, color, and energy. There was an abundance of food, drinks, games, performances, raffles, and competitions - including a show by a somewhat famous idol from Tokyo, whose appearance drew an enthusiastic crowd. The spectacle concluded with a dazzling fireworks display that lit up the night sky. Afterward, we gathered at an izakaya downtown for the final celebration, where we laughed, reminisced, and spent our hard-earned money on very delicious food and drinks.
Our group ran a stall at the festival, selling Sri Lankan delicacies like fried noodles with meat. My first day began at the archery clubhouse on the outskirts of campus, where we worked together to prepare the ingredients - carefully cutting meat and vegetables into bite-sized and pan-ready portions. Once everything was ready, we transported it to our stall, where the ingredients were fried to perfection, packed into transparent boxes, and enthusiastically advertised to passing festival-goers. Meanwhile, students from other courses were equally busy, offering sweet waffles, hot yakitori, fresh coffee, and an assortment of games like goldfish catching, ring tossing, and a lively lottery.
Gamers showcased their skills in intense Super Smash Bros. matches, flexed their strength in arm wrestling contests, and danced with boundless energy to popular K-pop hits. As the festival neared its end, the main stage transformed into the site of an exciting raffle. Visitors who had diligently collected stamp marks at various food and game stalls over the two days eagerly awaited their chance to win fantastic prizes like AirPods, smartwatches, and even a Nintendo Switch. Our reward was simpler yet equally satisfying: Feasting on leftover food, savoring the beauty of the fireworks display, and, to top it all off, visiting an izakaya and singing our hearts out at karaoke in the city center.
Ever wondered what the dumbest thing to watch might be, after binging every single episode of The Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, and How I Met Your Mother? The answer is In Another World with My Smartphone. Not the dumbest anime - just the dumbest thing ever made. Period. Here’s the premise: 15-year-old Touya Mochizuki is accidentally killed by God via lightning. To apologize, God reincarnates him in a fantasy world and grants him one wish. Touya’s choice? His smartphone. God upgrades it to work in the new world - complete with magic charging, news, and Google Maps. He also boosts Touya’s abilities as compensation for the whole accidental murder thing.
With his overpowered abilities, Touya roams from country to country solving disputes, completing quests, and amassing a harem of clichéd female characters: Cute lolitas, busty sex bombs, and even 600-year-old vampire queens in teenage bodies. The focus soon shifts to which underage waifu Touya might marry, punctuated by irrelevant battles that are resolved in minutes. The series feels like it was written by a socially inept preteen with no grasp of human interaction ever. Episodes devolve into Touya choosing which of the girls to ogle, while ninjas and dragons are just irrelevant background noise. It’s neither so bad it’s funny nor entertainingly absurd - it’s just sad and awful.
I endured the whole show, not out of hope for improvement, but sheer laziness. In Another World with My Smartphone isn’t just nonsensical - it’s an insult to storytelling and intelligence. Its creators abandoned any semblance of plot to showcase half-dressed fantasy girls vying for the affections of a bland protagonist in a white pimp coat with a magic phone. Even the most pedophilic Steven out there must think that he's being screwed over. If you’re thinking about checking out In Another World with My Smartphone to see for yourself, then I can only say: No! I forbid you to do so! Even roadkill could provide a more compelling narrative. This anime isn’t just bad - it’s the worst. By far.
The water reached two meters, Sodai Iwanaga recounted, gesturing toward the flood lines that once submerged his hometown of Ashikita, in Kumamoto Prefecture. In 2020, torrential rains devastated Kyushu, leaving 77 dead and two missing. Among those affected was the Iwanaga family, proud soy sauce producers now in their fifth generation. Despite the devastation, the Iwanagas never considered abandoning the business, founded in 1909. Instead, they turned to crowdfunding, raising nearly $90,000 from almost 1,000 supporters. Messages of encouragement poured in, including one that read, Our dining table has never been without a bottle of Iwanaga soy sauce.
We visited the Iwanagas’ brewery as part of our graphic design course at Sojo University. Located in Ashikita, a serene town in the southern part of Kumamoto near the west coast, the small factory is renowned for its high-quality local products. Soy sauces, vinegars, and miso pastes are crafted here with remarkable care and passion, embodying generations of tradition and dedication. As very creative design students, however, our interest extended far beyond the flavors and meticulous production methods. While we were deeply moved by the tales of resilience in the face of a devastating natural disaster, our focus was more on the visual language of their high quality products.
The scars of the disaster remain visible across Ashikita, from damaged homes to fragments of daily life unearthed at mudslide sites. Yet, resilience and determination define the community’s spirit. Residents have worked tirelessly to rebuild, even as memories of the destruction linger. Shattered neighborhoods are finding new life, and local traditions, like soy sauce brewing, have emerged as symbols of perseverance. The Iwanagas’ approach not only preserves tradition but also captures the essence of Ashikita’s spirit, creating products that tell a story beyond their taste or texture. It’s a testament to the strength of a town determined to rebuild itself, one bottle of soy sauce at a time.
When Sina and Paula arrived in Berlin, they trudged toward the nearest Burger King, both joyful and utterly exhausted. They ordered the biggest meals on the menu - double bacon cheeseburgers, oversized fries, and the largest Cokes they could get their hands on. They collapsed into their seats, savoring the taste of newfound freedom. For the first time in a long while, Sina felt truly, deeply happy. If you want, you can go to the toilet. I’ll wait here for you, Paula said, flashing her brightest, most reassuring smile. Sina nodded, taking another quick gulp of her Coke before heading off, still riding the high of their adventure. But when she came back to their table, Paula was gone.
At first, Sina assumed it was just a prank. She stood there, smiling to herself, expecting Paula to pop out from behind a corner with that mischievous grin she always wore. But that grin never appeared. Paula wasn’t behind the next corner. She wasn’t behind any corner. In fact, she was nowhere to be found. A cold prickle of unease crawled up Sina’s spine. Panic began to unfurl in the pit of her stomach. She combed through the station, searching every platform, every store, every tucked-away nook and cranny. The cheerful chatter and hurried footsteps of strangers around Sina blurred into white noise. Her chest tightened as she clung to the slim hope that Paula might still turn up.
Sina remembered Paula had her cell phone. Desperate, she fumbled for the last of her loose change and made a shaky call home from a public phone. As soon as her mother picked up, Sina broke down, sobbing as she tried to explain the situation. Well, that’s your own fault, her mother said with a hint of cruelty. Figure it out yourself. Everything around Sina seemed to tilt and spin. She collapsed onto all fours, her Coke now spilled and forgotten on the floor. Tears streamed down her face as she called out Paula’s name again and again. But the only response was the indifference of the bustling station. Paula was gone, and Sina’s small world suddenly felt emptier than ever before.
Few places in the world exude a more peaceful aura than museums and galleries - though perhaps supermarkets at 4 o’clock in the morning come close. These sanctuaries of natural wonders, historical milestones, and cultural achievements stand apart from the chaotic events of the outside world. Those who step inside join an exclusive clientele, people who have deliberately chosen to immerse themselves in what they hope is an inspiring parallel universe. Within these walls, time seems to pause, encouraging visitors to leave with the aspiration of making the world a little better - or at least not worse. A friend and I recently visited the Contemporary Art Museum here in Kumamoto.
Situated in the heart of the city, this museum is far more than a repository of art - it is a symbol of Kumamoto’s commitment to inclusivity, creativity, and forward-thinking ideals. Its mission is clear: To foster a tolerant city that embraces diversity and to inspire a future where every citizen can live a fulfilling, art-enriched life. The museum’s vision is built upon three core principles: offering a welcoming space for cultural exploration, stirring deep emotional connections through art, and collaborating with the community to envision a brighter future for the city. This is a place of reflection, imagination, and shared inspiration - a space where the lively spirit of Kumamoto is celebrated.
The exhibitions we explored at the Contemporary Art Museum in Kumamoto ranged from thought-provoking Japanese paintings to intimate photography and interactive installations, each one a visually stunning testament to the museum’s dedication to showcasing a rich tapestry of creative expression. By the end of our visit, we even had the chance to become part of a colorful, participatory work of art. Kumamoto deeply values culture, and the Contemporary Art Museum is just the beginning of my journey. There are countless museums, galleries, and exhibitions waiting for me to discover, each promising its own unique contribution to the city’s vibrant artistic landscape.
Modern television shows have rediscovered the simmering humor and intelligent subtlety that once seemed forgotten. The long-awaited death of intrusive background laughter is here, signaling the end of sledgehammer-induced punchlines. This refreshing trend is gradually, but unmistakably, seeping into animated art as well. Thank goodness. Among all the Simpsons, Griffins, and Smiths of this world, one exceptional gem has firmly established itself as a Sunday evening staple in the American television landscape: Bob’s Burgers by Loren Bouchard. The charmingly absurd story of a small snack bar owner and his delightfully chaotic family. Somewhere along the East Coast.
After a series of failures in the restaurant business, Bob Belcher decides to put everything on the line. This time, it has to work. A new opening, a fresh start. But what initially seems like a straightforward venture quickly transforms into an odyssey through the trials and tribulations of animated madness. One savory misadventure follows another. From jealous health officials accusing Bob of using human flesh in his burgers to bizarre mishaps like Bob getting stuck in the walls for inexplicable reasons. Add to the mix fake robberies, kissing contests with cows, and eccentric dance instructors. These punchy episodes evoke the nostalgic charm of classic Nickelodeon cartoons.
Bob’s wife, Linda, is an overenthusiastic dreamer with a flair for theatrical antics. Meanwhile, their three children are a chaotic whirlwind of eccentricities. Gene is a lovable, self-indulgent slob with zero sense of shame, while his younger sister Louise is a pint-sized schemer and every therapist’s dream - or nightmare. An then there’s Tina, with her raspy voice and boundless enthusiasm for ponies, is basically your Uncle Harry, but with a pair of breasts. The fact that most of the adorably characters are voiced by men lends the series a peculiar monotony that feels soulful and heartfelt in its own twisted way. Welcome to the bizarre world of Bob Belcher and his insane family.
There’s always something interesting happening in the center of Kumamoto. On my way to the city’s downtown museum with a friend to check out a few free public exhibitions on a special open day, we stumbled upon a toy swap meet in front of a popular shopping center - and the runtish crowd that came with it. This colorful event didn’t catch us entirely off guard, as our art teachers had not only warned us in advance but also handed us a few action figures to trade. So, before immersing ourselves in the world of paintings, photography, and installations, we took a deep breath and dove into the exciting universe of bright plastic toys, cute plush animals, and shiny trading cards.
As with most things here in Japan, the swap meet also had some kind of system. At one stand, we could exchange our action figures for points, which we then used to buy toys displayed on the other tables. The more valuable the product, the more points it cost - simple enough. Wandering through mountains of Far Eastern playthings, we picked out a few favorites. I chose a small book about Japanese ghost figures, which fit perfectly with my participation in the yokai drawing competition. I was quite thrilled with my find, though we didn’t have enough points for much else. What we weren’t prepared for was the grand finale waiting for us at the very end of the amusing event.
The climatic highlight of the swap meet was an auction, where children, parents, and some random nerds like me could bid their leftover points on especially valuable toys. The selection included everything from Pokémon plushies to musical instruments and brightly wrapped plastic sculptures, the purpose of which I still can’t fathom. While I spent just two small points on my cute book, the little monsters around us were screaming bids in the triple digits just to take home a goofy-looking sheep. Some kids cried. After witnessing this lively social and cultural spectacle, we finally made our way to the museum. Admission was eventually free on that very day, after all. Hurray!
Johnny sank to the ground in front of Sina, howling and panting. Right in the balls! Paula shouted jubilantly. It was dark, it was cold, but this good deed made Sina glow inside. She felt quite liberated. Her heart pounded in her chest as adrenaline surged through her. Johnny grimaced painfully, his friends looked at the girl like paralyzed rabbits. They didn’t know whether to attack or retreat, their indecision almost comical. Come on over here, you jerks, I’m in a really good mood today! Sina shouted at them, looking as grim as she could. She had nothing left to lose, and her opponents should feel that. The boys shifted nervously, but not even one of them dared to step forward.
Sina, hurry up, the fucking train is about to leave! Paula yelled urgently, pulling her back to reality. Sina grabbed her backpack and started running. She ran away from her old life, her boyfriend, her family, just away from here. Johnny called after her: You bitch! If I catch you, I’ll kill you! Cuuuuunt! His voice cracked with pain and fury, but the threat only made her feet move faster. At his very last word, Sina and Paula finally jumped onto the train. The doors closed loudly behind them, sealing them off from the chaos and noise outside for good. Sina was so relieved that she knelt down and started to cry, her tears mixing with laughter that bubbled up uncontrollably.
When Sina opened her eyes again, she and Paula lay in each other’s arms, the gentle motion of the train rocking them softly. Outside, trees, hills, and houses shot past them like a living painting. Sina snuggled up to Paula’s purple sweater, which smelled so good of roses, and breathed in deeply. Her chest ached with relief, and her breathing finally began to slow. How much longer? Sina murmured into Paula’s big breasts. A few hours, was the brief reply from above. Okay... Sina whispered, her voice trailing off as she let herself sink deeper into Paula’s warm embrace. Neither of them said another word for a while, lost in the simple relief of being together and free.
I recently joined a drawing class here at my university in Kumamoto. After learning the fundamentals of Japanese painting over the past few weeks, it’s now time to put that knowledge into practice. Most of the works my diligent fellow students create, sometimes after months of effort, are entered into various competitions, primarily national ones, offering not only fame and honor but sometimes even monetary rewards or other prizes. Following the well-known saying, When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I’ve decided to participate in a competition as well. And I’ve really found a good one: The sunny island of Shodoshima is hosting a drawing competition with a focus on yokai.
Yokai are supernatural creatures, spirits, or beings from Japanese folklore, embodying a wide range of traits from mischievous and playful to malevolent and terrifying. They often reflect cultural beliefs, natural phenomena, or moral lessons. Famous examples include Kappa, water-dwelling creatures known for their fondness for cucumbers and cunning tricks, Kitsune, fox spirits associated with intelligence and shapeshifting, and Tengu, bird-like beings often depicted as mountain protectors and skilled martial artists. Yokai are deeply rooted in Japanese culture, often appearing in famous myths, art, and even way more modern media like anime, manga, and video games.
The required canvas size is manageable enough to give beginners like me a fair chance. My teachers kindly provided books on yokai and encouraged me to gather inspiration, develop ideas, and start sketching. I now have just under a month to complete the painting, which includes preparing the canvas and producing the necessary paints, colors, and glue. I’m very glad that my fellow students are also there to help me. If I win, I’ll not only receive money and a special artifact but also be part of a ceremony on the beautiful island of Shodoshima. Wish me luck as I compete against master’s students, amateur artists, and professional painters. How hard could it be, am I right you guys?
Rui lies sweaty on her stomach in front of Natsuo, holding her bottom out to him in skimpy underwear as his heart races. She coughs, battling a cold. He gently pulls down her wet panties, unable to meet Rui’s gaze directly due to youthful shame. He carefully feels his way up between her legs, until he reaches what he believes is the right opening. Higher... Rui gasps, her face buried in a pillow as Natsuo tries to push his way into her moist entrance. Excuse me, Natsuo manages before feeling further upwards and finally inserting the suppository into her tight exit, longing for conception. Only Rui’s gurgling moans fill the dimly lit nursery, promising relief from her illness.
Domestic Girlfriend presents a disreputable world where incest and sexual intercourse with students are considered acceptable. The anime features snogging, groping, and shagging, all while maintaining an air of niceness, cuteness, and humor, at least until feelings develop. Natsuo is smitten with his teacher, Hina, but accepts his friends’ suggestion to attend a party where he meets Rui, leading to an unexpected encounter that leaves both parties no longer virgins. They dismiss the experience as a fleeting moment, hoping never to see each other again. However, Natsuo’s father announces his remarriage, now bringing two new stepsisters into the family: Hina and Rui.
Instead of learning from past mistakes, Natsuo continues his manipulative behavior, hurting everyone he encounters within a ten-kilometer radius. Despite his actions, he still manages to win a prize for best young writer, fulfilling his dream of becoming an author, while Rui rewards him by spreading her legs to celebrate. Domestic Girlfriend suggests that karma doesn’t apply if you constantly praise improvements and ignore signs of remorse. Natsuo’s protagonist status allows him to avoid any consequences for breaking his stepsister’s heart, as well as her hymen, engaging in a bunch of inappropriate relationships, and manipulating others without facing repercussions.
A few years ago, I snuck out of the house on Halloween night and wandered through my dark, foggy, and eerily deserted hometown. With a scary story by ghost hunter John Sinclair playing in my ear, this one about a brothel haunted by vampires, it felt like the perfect entertainment for such a spooky night. The atmosphere was electrifying, the kind of mystery that sends shivers down your spine in the best possible way. The only person I encountered that evening was a long-haired bottle collector making his rounds through the dense fog, his silhouette occasionally flickering into view before vanishing again. Every second of that enigmatic Halloween was unforgettable.
Since that night, I’ve developed a deep fondness for exploring the streets of whichever city I find myself in during Halloween. This year, as I’m living in Japan, I made it a priority to continue my quiet tradition here. My daily route often winds around the castle park, past residential buildings, shops, and Kumamoto’s always-vibrant downtown. Around Halloween, this area transforms into a lively spectacle, with the market square near the popular bus station bursting with food stalls, shops, and a small but lively stage. In the heart of the square, a mix of cute witches, playful ghosts, and furries scurried about, juggling pizza slices, Coca-Cola bottles, and shopping bags.
On stage, children were applauded for their creative costumes. One memorable highlight was a little girl dressed as Sailor Moon, confidently shouting into the microphone with such enthusiasm that it took a gentle intervention to end her impromptu performance. Halloween has always held a special place in my heart, but celebrating it in a city where others embrace it with equal fervor elevates the experience to another level. There’s a unique magic in blending my reflective tradition of wandering with the vibrant communal energy of a place like Kumamoto. The streets, the costumes, the laughter, and the shared love for all things spooky - this is Halloween at its finest.
Keiichi Nitta is one of my favorite photographers. Like... ever. His rise as one of Japan’s most iconic artists began under Terry Richardson’s mentorship. I’ve always admired Terry’s work, Keiichi tells me. Living in New York, he persistently called Terry’s studio daily for a year until finally earning a meeting. The experience taught him invaluable lessons about creating a relaxed atmosphere during shoots - still a hallmark of Keiichi’s own work even today. We’re still good friends, he adds. Back in Tokyo, Keiichi quickly established his very own studio there. Starting fresh was quite nerve-wracking, the creative bohemian openly admits, but things finally fell into place.
High-profile clients, including Lady Gaga and Kumi Koda, soon followed, each bringing unique energy to his shoots. Keiichi’s signature Polaroid photography, a tradition from his time with Terry, adds a personal touch models enjoy. His inspiration varies by project, shaped by the models or brands he collaborates with. Keiichi’s career highlights include the birth of his son, Milo, which he described as life-changing, and his milestone 100K Show. If Milo wants to be a photographer, I’ll support him, Keiichi says. It’s just important for him that his son’s future involves some kind of creativity. Fatherhood, however, hasn’t altered Keiichi’s raw and innovational work at all.
A lover of Japanese cuisine, Keiichi speaks enthusiastically about sushi, especially from his favorite spot, Fukusushi. Years of experience have also normalized working with nude models, which he views as just another part of the job. His travels to Europe have left a lasting impression, with Germany high on his list for future exhibitions. Music plays an eclectic role in Keiichi’s life. I listen to everything from rock to house, he says. For aspiring photographers, Keiichi’s advice is simple: Find a mentor, practice relentlessly, and shoot everything around you. As for his own future, he’s focused on expanding his global presence through more shows and exhibitions worldwide.
My Japanese exchange university regularly organizes events on special occasions to bring Japanese and international students together. These include excursions to fascinating places around Kumamoto, like bridges, breweries, and golden One Piece statues, several competitions to improve participants’ English language skills, and farraginous festivities celebrating special cultural holidays. Halloween, with its colorful disguises, mysterious customs, and sweet treats, sometimes scary, sometimes not, is no exception. The Japanese people here on the island of Kyushu embrace this day enthusiastically, and Sojo University has made its own contribution to this modern tradition.
On the spookiest day of the year, I was invited to a cozy Halloween party hosted by my university at its International Learning Center. The event featured an abundance of Japanese snacks and drinks - many of which were still completely unfamiliar to me. Students and lecturers dressed up as dinosaurs, witches, and bloody knife-wielding murderers, creating a festive atmosphere. I had interesting conversations with new people, which made the evening even more enjoyable. My costume? Gru from Despicable Me, of course. Despite my immeasurable efforts, I couldn’t secure first prize in the costume competition. Too bad! But I’m not a sore loser - most of the time, at least.
Halloween has become one of my favorite days of the year. Growing up in Germany in the 1980s and 1990s, I only experienced it as it slowly began to gain popularity in Europe. Unfortunately, by the time German kids started trick-or-treating, I was already a little too old for it. My childhood Halloween tradition was limited to watching The Simpsons Halloween specials on TV while snacking on skull-shaped chocolates. This year, I’m thrilled to celebrate Halloween in Japan, a country where the fascination with ghosts, spirits, and yokai is deeply ingrained in the culture. It’s been an unforgettable experience to embrace the spooky season in such a unique and meaningful way.
Sina approaches me with a smile, takes my hands, and presses a tender yet passionate kiss to my lips. I’m real, she whispers softly. And we both live in this world. A bright ray of light pierces through my cloudy thoughts, long dominated by darkness. Yelping and shrieking in pain, the demons of my self explode into a thousand pieces, clearing the way for a green, healing bud to sprout through the cold, withered earth. A grin spreads across my face, which had just been so pensive and sullen, weighed down by deep conviction and dislike. For the first time in what felt like years, I sensed a flicker of hope - a tiny ember refusing to be extinguished by the heavy storm of my own mind.
Well, you see, Sina says, running off. Come on, let’s fly! she shouts before disappearing around the next corner. Wait for me! Sina was like a little child. She reminded me of the resolutions and convictions I had lost through the relentless grind of life here. Her disposition was always cheerful, carefree, and full of positive surprises. Sina was Ernie, and I... I was Bert. Don’t be like that, Bert! I enjoyed every minute with her - or at least, that’s how it felt in retrospect. In truth, she often annoyed me with her overly naïve view of our doomed existence, which I found infuriatingly simplistic. Or maybe, deep down, I was just jealous of the lightness she seemingly carried so effortlessly.
I often looked at Sina’s pale body, photographed it, caressed it, memorized it. I knew every freckle, every scar, every fine hair. I knew how to stroke her belly to make her giggle like a chicken, where she didn’t want to be touched, and how to drive her to inner despair - or even ecstasy. Sina was an open book to me, her pages rich with detail, yet so many of them still seemed unread - perhaps even unwritten. It was those chapters that scared me the most, filling me with a dread I couldn’t quite explain. I was afraid of them. Afraid of a future waiting for us, one I didn’t want to confront. Because it would change everything, destroy our small world, and annihilate both me and her.
My life here in Kumamoto primarily revolves around three main places: My home, where I mostly just sleep, work, and do laundry. My university, where I rush from one lecture to the next. And downtown, where I spend most of my free time. Whether it’s stopping by the city hall or the post office, parting with my more or less hard-earned money in various stores, or meeting friends in cafés, restaurants, or at karaoke, the true spirit of Kumamoto thrives in the streets of its bustling city center. It’s a lively area filled with all kinds of attractive, wondrous, and colorful establishments, and I try to visit it as often as I can, because luckily it's only a stone’s throw from my apartment.
Kumamoto’s downtown, located directly below the famous and beautiful city castle, is centered around three covered arcades that are vibrant day and night: Kamitori, Shimotori, and Shinshigai. These streets are lined with restaurants, drugstores, cafés, cinemas, museums, bars, konbini, bakeries, florists, hotels, and an array of small and large retailers, as well as several shopping centers. I’ve made it my personal mission to visit as many of these places as possible during my time here and keep trying new things. After all, I don’t want to look back in the future and regret wasting this unique opportunity. While I’m here, I want to make the most of it. At least, that’s the plan.
Of course, this is easier said than done. For example, I’ve yet to visit some restaurants because I can’t figure out how to use the ticket machines, which only display Japanese characters. That’s why I’m always grateful when friends join me, patiently explaining everything so I can press the correct buttons and handle things on my own next time. Hopefully, my Japanese will improve gradually - who knows? While Kumamoto might not be the first city that comes to mind for tourists visiting Japan, I’m glad to have landed here. It’s an exciting city full of interesting places and nice people. Bit by bit, I’m exploring all of its charms, and it’s been a vastly rewarding adventure so far.
There was a time when Netflix offered a solid lineup of shows. That was before they began randomly canceling titles or dragging them out ad nauseam, seemingly unable to strike a middle ground ever again. As I browsed through the countless titles, one series in particular caught my eye. I was determined to watch anything but the 97th rerun of Family Guy. The show’s name? BoJack Horseman. The protagonist is a horse who starred in a popular sitcom, where he played the caretaker of some orphans. Fast forward twenty years, and BoJack lives in a lavish Hollywood mansion with a good-for-nothing roommate. He’s supposedly writing his memoir - but failing miserably.
Enter Diane Nguyen, a ghostwriter tasked with helping BoJack put his chaotic life into words. What starts as a glimpse into a washed-up comedian’s attempt to reclaim his glory soon spirals into a tale of betrayal, envy, and self-destruction. The looming fear of waking up one day as an old, useless has-been creeps closer with every episode. BoJack’s life grows more depressing by the minute, and whenever he faces a choice, he almost always makes the wrong one. What about the cast? Stellar. Will Arnett voices BoJack, Alison Brie voices Diane, and Aaron Paul voices Todd - a character who might just be the only level-headed person in BoJack’s bizarre entourage. Or maybe not.
BoJack Horseman is a razor-sharp satire of modern Hollywood, a place that chews up its former idols and spits them into a purgatory of drugs, fleeting fame, and champagne-soaked regrets. Created by Raphael Bob-Waksberg, the show initially comes across as absurd nonsense but quickly reveals profound layers exploring alcoholism, guilt, and personal doom - all set in a world of anthropomorphic animals. I recommend this gem of a show to anyone who’s tired of surface-level entertainment and craves something that peels back the glittery facade to show what’s lurking beneath. No matter what, when, or where, BoJack Horseman is for me and you - and no one else.
The Land of the Rising Sun is not only renowned for its, let’s call it, alternative entertainment industry but also its breathtaking fireworks festivals. And one of the most stunning takes place every October in southern Kyushu, in the town of Yatsushiro in beautiful Kumamoto Prefecture. This vibrant spectacle showcases Japan’s finest light and sound artistry, with unparalleled effects created by the country’s leading pyrotechnicians - or at least, that’s how it was advertised to potential visitors. Intrigued, I took a crowded local train to Yatsushiro with a couple of friends, where we not only admired the dazzling night sky displays but also savored a delightful evening barbecue.
At the cozy barbecue in a local parking lot on the outskirts of Yatsushiro, nestled in a quiet neighborhood, we indulged in an array of delicious Japanese fried delicacies, sweet and salty snacks, and, for those so inclined, an abundance of cold and fruity beer-mix drinks. During the evening, we struck up a conversation with a possibly tipsy gentleman who claimed to be a famous voice actor from Tokyo. He enthusiastically told us he had starred in iconic robot anime like Gundam. I found this really fascinating and had a pleasant chat with him, but eventually, my friends politely yet firmly ushered him on his way. Bye-bye, Ojisan, I said with a mix of amusement and relief.
The fireworks competition began at nightfall and had a Disney theme. Whether it was The Lion King, Frozen, or Aladdin, each display featured classic animation-inspired scenes, paired with matching music and spectacular explosions in every color imaginable. Standing there, on the outskirts of a, at least to me, unknown Japanese city, surrounded by wonderful people, delicious food, and a stunning hanabi show, filled me with joy. I couldn’t stop smiling - even while waiting in the long queue at the overcrowded small train station or enduring the, let’s say, cozy ride home a couple of hours later. And I simply can’t wait to experience all the amazing more things Japan has to offer.
We had a sumptuous dinner on Adam’s and Eva’s rooftop terrace. Sina and Eva had prepared vegan lasagna with Italian salad and pudding with chunks in it - just the way I liked it best. Adam talked about the business: His club, the Chan Shin, and how hard it was to keep a place like that going these days. There was too much competition in the city, he said, and the customers were getting weirder and weirder - but at least funnier. He was tall, with monumental tattoos on both arms depicting lions, eagles, stars, tribals, and roses. Multiple shiny piercings adorned his madness-ridden face, and his dark voice lent an inescapable emphasis to every single thing that he said to people.
His wife Eva, on the other hand, was small, slim, and slender. Her perfectly straight, shoulder-length blonde hair often transformed her into the image of a bright fairy in my imagination. Her voice was gentle and level-headed. I would have loved for Eva to read me a bedtime story one day. I nodded incessantly as Adam spoke, but in truth, I didn’t really care about anything he was explaining. I was one of the most colorful characters in the whole business, and I didn’t give a damn. Sina knew that. She gave me a sympathetic look and took a big bite of lasagna. At the time, I thought it was adorable how she shoved large chunks of food into her mouth. Maybe I still do, even today.
Why does this world make you so happy? I asked her as we walked home. What world do you mean? she replied, hugging me loosely before dancing happily on the cobblestones. The parties, the clubs, the overexcited people. The drugs and all that. She stopped and slowly turned to face me. Because you live in it. I stared at her in disbelief. But I hate it. And you know that.Why?Because none of it is real. It’s all hyped up and artificial. People repress their problems and worries, drown them in alcohol, and push themselves into some kind of mental escape with pills - only to hit the harsh ground of reality all the harder the next morning. We live in a very sad world.
I realized very early on that Japanese entertainment is far superior to its Western counterpart. As a small child, German television introduced me to series like Maya the Bee, Vicky the Viking, and Heidi, which were far more heartfelt, emotional, and exciting than anything Disney and its contemporaries offered. Of course, I loved normal cartoons too, but when East Asian classics such as Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and One Piece finally arrived in Central Europe a few years later, I found myself craving everything from the Land of the Rising Sun. I devoured anime magazines, bought shonen manga anthologies, and spent my pocket money on Japanese music CDs. An otaku was born.
When you think of otaku paradise, Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electric Town, naturally comes to mind. It’s a haven for every nerdy heart, offering everything from anime and manga to provocative figurines. However, my personal favorite store is on the other side of the city, nestled in the heart of Shibuya. The Mandarake there is somewhat hidden between a ramen restaurant and a guitar shop. Descending the stairs into this underground otaku dungeon, I suddenly find myself surrounded by everything I truly love. The aisles overflow with movies, comics, trading cards, figurines, CDs, video games, consoles, magazines, drawing supplies, hentai, and all sorts of quirky odds and ends.
Whether it’s iconic series like Pokémon, Astro Boy, and Neon Genesis Evangelion or hidden gems like Excel Saga, Genshiken, and Eden of the East, Mandarake offers such a vast and wonderfully obscure selection that I could easily spend my life savings here - and still only scratch the surface. The real obstacle, however, is that I’m broke. Sometimes, I wish I were obsessed enough with one series to want every piece of merchandise available. But because I have an eclectic taste and like a bit of everything, I usually find satisfaction in simply wandering through the labyrinthine aisles, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere, and drawing inspiration from the colorful characters around me.
As we all know, everything used to be better - the music, the weather, the food, the love. And, of course, television. Today? Garbage. But were anime better too? That’s the nostalgia talking. Sure, Sailor Moon, Cowboy Bebop, and Neon Genesis Evangelion are epic masterpieces. But then there’s Oh My Goddess!. Released in 2005 and based on a manga, Oh My Goddess! is celebrated as a classic. Lovable characters? Sure. A great story? Almost. Sheer epicness? Let’s not get carried away. Keiichi Morisato accidentally contacts the Technical Goddess Emergency Service. Enter Belldandy, who grants him a wish. Thinking it’s a joke, he wishes for her to stay with him forever - and she actually does.
Unable to live in his all-male dorm from now on, Keiichi moves with Belldandy to a Buddhist temple. Things get crazier when her sisters, Urd and Skuld, join the fun. Hilarity and chaos ensue - or so they’d have me believe. So, why don’t they make anime like this anymore? Simple: They ran out of ideas. Keiichi is a painfully generic, shy anime protagonist who gets flustered over absolutely nothing. Belldandy is perfect to a fault. The rest of the cast? They’re... there. The show starts strong, exploring Keiichi’s predicament, but quickly devolves into total absurdities: Goddesses and demons squabble, races happen, robots fight, and some random explosions occur every now and then.
The story loses focus along the way, veering into nonsense by the halfway point. Some episodes feel like irrelevant filler, set entirely inside a house to save budget. Others seem to forget to have a plot at all. By the end, I was left wondering what even happened at all. Spoiler: Not much. Oh My Goddess! is the perfect background anime - charming in its way, but far from essential. I could have skipped most episodes, and miss absolutely nothing. The show would’ve been stronger if it stuck to Keiichi and Belldandy’s relationship instead of suddenly cramming in her entire family. Nostalgia aside, everything used to be better in the good old days - except for Oh My Goddess!.
At Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I am, as you all know by know, spending a semester abroad, a two-day festival with all the trimmings is set to take place in just a few weeks. All the faculties will participate, putting on a vibrant showcase of activities. At least, that’s the plan. The festival will feature numerous food and game stalls, a large stage with various performances, and a spectacular fireworks display. There’s even a special guest - a pop idol from Tokyo. I imagine the whole thing will feel like one of those heartwarming anime episodes where the entire school plans a festival, only for the city to be attacked by ugly alien monsters - or something along those lines.
Recently, I joined a fun and vibrant group called Sojo Buddies - a lively mix of Japanese and international students from various faculties at Sojo University. The witty group organizes exciting events in Kumamoto and beyond, plans excursions to interesting places, and occasionally meets for meals at delicious restaurants. Since good food brings people together, we’ve decided to run a food stall at the festival, serving spicy curry and other delicacies inspired by Sri Lankan cuisine. To ensure we know what we’re doing, and to avoid making fools of ourselves at the festival, we held a group cooking session, followed by a very essential taste test - and it was a complete success.
Cooking with such an amusing group was a nice experience, even though my main contribution was aggressively breaking pasta into small pieces - just as the recipe we received instructed. In the end, we were all quite pleased with the result. I got to meet many new people, and we capped off the evening by watching a live broadcast of a local basketball team’s match. We’re more or less confident our food stall will be a gigantic hit at the upcoming festival, and the more money we raise, the grander our after-show party at some izakaya will be. Now, we eagerly await the festival at Sojo University. Hopefully, no ugly alien monsters will decide to attack our city in the meantime.
At least Sina didn’t have to look Johnny in the eye during his very personal interpretation of the Second World War. Instead, she took the opportunity to gaze out of the open window into the park on that sunny day and reflect on the important questions in life. She wondered if Paula had forgotten the history assignment that Mr. Dächler had given her. How many girls, at that very moment, were also kneeling on all fours in front of their loved one, counting clouds. And whether she should finally redeem her voucher at Douglas. There was a new perfume from Calvin Klein that smelled like a blend of vanilla and raspberry, perfectly complementing Sina’s nice and natural scent.
Turn around, slut! Johnny shouted from behind, and before she knew it, Sina was lying on her back, with Johnny’s miniature excuse for a cock heading straight for her face. The thought of going to Berlin to turn her life upside down and figure out what she truly wanted to do came to Sina just a few minutes later in Johnny’s bathroom. Sina had just rinsed her face with water and reached for the towel when she accidentally caught her own reflection, staring into her ocean-blue eyes. They looked back at her almost dismissively. She examined her face while the post-romantic sounds of Rammstein echoed from the living room. The faint scent of marijuana drifted into her nose.
Sina realized, that she was more than just a small, red-haired girl whose face had been treated like a sperm cemetery again and again. She had character. She was creative as hell. She was something special. And damn it, she had great tits too. With this newfound clarity, Sina stormed into the living room, grabbed her clothes, and ran past Johnny with a loud, “Bye, sucker!” before stumbling out the door into the courtyard. The old couple sitting opposite her on a blue bench against the house wall seemed to thoroughly enjoy the impromptu striptease in the greenery. Sina took her time getting dressed, pulled a cigarette from her pocket, and made her way to the next bus station.
Japan is not only known for its eye-catching fashion, delicious food, and captivating animation art but also for its frequent earthquakes of varying severity, a consequence of its geographical location. Ever since the Great Kanto Earthquake in the year 1923 and, more recently, the Tohoku Earthquake in the year 2011, both the inhabitants of this East Asian island and visitors alike have been acutely aware of the ever-present danger simmering beneath their feet. Even the city of Kumamoto, where I am currently staying, experienced devastating earthquakes in the year 2016, which not only destroyed a bunch of city districts but also its famous landmark: The Kumamoto Castle.
As a recent resident of Kumamoto City, I felt compelled to, and also had to, attend a disaster preparedness seminar. Together with a few friends, I fulfilled this obligation at the first available opportunity. We visited a local fire station, where we learned how to act in the event of an impending disaster. The seminar included an engaging video, hands-on simulations involving the four elements, fire, water, wind, and earth, and a Q&A session with the quite dedicated course instructor. After this experience, I feel confident in my ability to pull through should the worst occur. That said, perhaps I should also attend a seminar on surviving a zombie apocalypse - just to be fully prepared.
One key takeaway from the seminar was the importance of having a emergency bag. What should it include? A flashlight, a portable radio, a helmet, a protective hood, work gloves, a blanket, batteries, a lighter, candles, water, food, instant noodles, a can opener, a knife, clothing, cash, and a first-aid kit. Having gained some expertise in disaster preparedness, I even found myself featured on Japanese television, sharing my thoughts on this crucial topic. Although I’ve grown accustomed to the frequent, minor tremors here, the specter of the legendary Nankai megathrust earthquake looms large in everyone’s mind. But I wouldn’t mind if it held off for a while longer...
When I think of Japan, my mind drifts to sushi, manga, and suicide. It’s a country of pure contrasts, where neon lights pulse with life, yet shadows loom just as brightly. Recently, I watched Sion Sono’s cult masterpiece Suicide Club, a delirious descent into the bizarre phenomenon of mass suicides sweeping the East Asian nation. The film from 2001, featuring appearances by Ryo Ishibashi, Akaji Maro, and Masatoshi Nagase, unfolds like a sinister puzzle, with Detective Kuroda and his team fumbling through a trail of cryptic clues: Rancid sports bags, clunky early-internet websites, and a deeply unnerving pop idol group that’s equal parts saccharine and sinister. And I love it.
The opening scene is burned into my head: Dozens of uniformed schoolgirls, hands clasped and faces alight with giddy laughter, throwing themselves in front of a speeding subway train. Blood sprays across the station like something out of a grotesque art installation. It’s horrifying, absurd, and iconic - a tone-setter for the ride that follows. From there, the movie spirals into a dizzying blend of splatter gore, J-pop surrealism, and psychological labyrinths. What’s it all about? The search for identity? Love? Friendship? Or is it just a meditation on flesh? Sion Sono doesn’t hand out answers. Instead, he dares me to sit with the madness and draw my own conclusions.
There’s something inconceivably irresistible about shows and movies set in Tokyo right around the turn of the millennium. Foldable phones snapping shut with satisfying clicks, Eurobeat tracks pumping through crowded arcades, schoolgirls in sailor suits dashing to catch the last train - it was the very last time when Japan felt like the epicenter of cool, a fever-dream era that unfortunately will never quite return. Suicide Club captures that strange moment perfectly, preserving it in all its chaotic, messy glory. And if there’s one message I take away from this twisted gem, it’s that you have to treat life like a write-once hard drive. Although, it would be nice to forget the bad things.
The sweltering heat of summer is giving way to a cool breeze. Trees begin to change color, and the fields gradually empty. In the supermarket, the fresh harvest awaits eager shoppers. These days, I love strolling through the streets of my new city, searching for unexplored paths - whether in the heart of bustling downtown or along the quiet outskirts of the suburbs. Sometimes, I encounter a lazy cat basking in the sun, other times, I hop over small streams or stumble upon a hidden café, shrine, or candy store. Kumamoto feels like a treasure chest, waiting to be discovered. Lucy Maud Montgomery once wrote: I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. I feel you, sister.
To hone our creative skills, the Japanese Arts Masters Club, of which I have recently become a member, organized a cozy walk to a nearby field with a small river meandering through it. Surrounded by rolling mountains and lush green trees, the area felt like a slice of paradise. The vibrant Red Spider Lily, also known as the Autumn Flower and beloved in Japan, blooms here - its striking petals making it an ideal subject for sketching. We carefully selected a few of the prettiest specimens, unearthed them gently with their roots still intact, and brought them back to our classroom in small containers. There, the beautiful plants immediately became our models for drawing.
Armed with knives-sharpened pencils, soft watercolors, and a specific style in my mind, I set out to immortalize one of the flowers on thick paper. The result exceeded my expectations, giving me confidence that I might soon be ready to attempt my first painting in the style of traditional Japanese art. I haven’t decided yet on the motif for this creative milestone, but several ideas are already taking shape. I’ve even crafted my first small canvas - it’s waiting to be brought to life. But all in due time. Everything at its own pace. Because that’s one of the things I’ve already learnt here in my time in Japan: Good things take time - and it’s very important to always keep this in mind.
Close friends describe Sina as a stubborn, impulsive girl who can fall in love with people or things as suddenly and passionately as a raging storm - only to lose interest just as quickly out of boredom. Only a few scenarios can stir bloodcurdling fear in her, and one stands out: The thought of becoming wealthier than her father. To her, it’s undeniable: Money is the root of his behavior. It’s why the idiot is constantly jetting off to world capitals, surrounded by an entourage of blonde, anorexic secretaries barely older than she is, while her family is left behind. Her mother has no idea that he’s fooling around with at least half of these soulless Barbie dolls - or maybe she just doesn’t care.
Small children are another fear Sina can’t really control. She doesn’t know how to handle them or what to do with them, especially when eight-year-old boys with huge crotches call her names and grab her ass at the bus stop. If you try to discipline these kids, their hulking fathers will intervene, taking out their anger on you in a disgusting mix of disgust and lust. Cheers for this lovely morning, Sina thought. But the prospect of losing her bikini during a daring swim in the wood lake nearby is her biggest fear: It happened to her best friend Paula last summer, resulting in everyone knowing about her dissimilar sized breasts topped with humanity’s darkest nipples ever since.
This situation has become a rich source of amusement for the entire school, especially those brats from fifth class, who can’t get over it. And it’s not just those little bitches who find it hilarious - no, Johnny, the self-proclaimed moron and prime candidate for the Prole of the Year award, is all too happy to milk it for all it’s worth. Although, at that very moment, he was more focused on beging milked by Sina while mounting her, making disgusting grunting noises, and almost falling off the bed during his failed attempt to finger her at the same time. So, Johnny decided to just give up his half-assed attempt to pleasure his girlfriend too and instead concentrate simply on skeetin’.
Japan is not just the land of the rising sun and smiles - it’s also a nation of endless culinary delights. Sushi, ramen, sashimi... If you travel to this easternmost corner of the world hoping to shed a few pounds thanks to fresh fish and smaller portions, you may find yourself instead in a land of milk and honey teeming with a thousand delectable treats. I embarked on an extensive, and extremely delicious, food journey to sample the country’s varied cuisine and step outside the proverbial box, discovering lesser-known delicacies that are especially rare in the West. Or in other words: I try to eat as much different Japanese food as possible while I’m here. Because it’s simply the best.
The result? A vibrant potpourri of Japanese delights that regularly fills my mouth. Whether dining in cheap fast-food joints, upscale restaurants, or cozy bars, my palate and I indulge at every opportunity. Tempura, yakitori, okonomiyaki - nothing is left undiscovered or untasted during my trip to this gastronomic wonderland. However, there’s one small catch: Japan isn’t exactly known for being a budget-friendly country, especially when it comes to food. Anyone who has stepped into a random Japanese supermarket and seen the absurd prices of perfectly polished apples, bananas, and watermelons knows exactly what I mean. Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t bottomless - yet.
So, how do I survive as a broke-ass student in a nation of overpriced food? Do I subsist on instant ramen, dreaming of biting into a juicy piece of karaage? Thankfully, no. The secret to enjoying delicious food without going broke lies in patience - and in waiting for the legendary man with the stickers. Every night, this supermarket savior appears, wandering the aisles of bentos, sushi, and pizzas, affixing small discount badges that slash prices in half. Moments later, a ravenous mob descends upon these bargains - and if you’re quick enough, you can snag yourself a cheap and tasty dinner. Congratulations, you’ve mastered the formidable art of dining in Japan on a very tight budget!
When I browse through the overwhelming mass of new anime shows today, I’m bombarded with tired clichés, recycled ideas, and uninspired styles. The magic, dedication, and soul from the early days seem lost. Instead, I’m inundated with stories about boring slowpokes sucked into parallel worlds, little sisters flashing their underpants, and mindless mischief makers causing chaos for no reason. Yet, among this sea of mediocrity, there are pure masterpieces hidden as animated cartoons on obscure corners of the internet. Space Dandy is one of them: A series that operates on multiple levels to evoke a wide range of emotions, doing so skillfully and never heavy-handedly.
At its very deepest core, Space Dandy follows a self-absorbed jerk, a lecherous cat, and a depressed vacuum cleaner as they travel through the cosmos hunting rare aliens for cash. Yes, it’s full of bouncing boobs, cheesy one-liners, and power-hungry villains. But beneath the surface, Space Dandy is a heartfelt homage to everything awesome. Every episode is a visual and emotional rollercoaster. Space Dandy shines through its unique blend of brave absurdity and even braver introspection. On the surface, Space Dandy dazzles with colorful planets, steaming bowls of ramen, and empty-headed zombie escapades. Often, the stories end with the protagonists meeting untimely deaths.
Beneath the chaos lies a thought-provoking undercurrent that questions our own reality. What if a comet struck Earth, awakening plants to sentient thought and a thirst for knowledge? What would a world look like where pure hatred and endless war were the only options left? And what happens when everyday machines develop desires and emotions? Space Dandy is a shining example of a genre that has been diluted for decades by generic franchises and trivialized by shallow Western interpretations. Beautiful, clever, and imaginative, it isn’t afraid to embrace its silly, embarrassing, and laugh-out-loud moments. The result? A series that inspires nothing less than pure love.
When I showed the last art teacher who had to put up with me my sketches of naked bodies, which I had more or less painstakingly created in the months prior, he said to me, and I am not exaggerating here, that they were the worst works he had ever seen. In. His. Entire. Life. This man certainly knew no mercy. But not only was he right, his words also confirmed something I had long suspected: I was better suited for digital art than analog art. I even resigned myself to the likelihood of failing his course due to my lack of talent, a fate only avoided when a tipsy fellow student intervened. She sent him a borderline humorous email, miraculously persuading him to let me pass.
Thanks to this pivotal experience, I would have given up the marvelous craft of pen and paper forever if I hadn’t met two inspiring girls in Japan who invited me to drop by their art club. I tried to explain my complete lack of drawing skills, but before I knew it, I was standing in a room filled with paints, brushes, and canvases. The teachers, bustling around the space, promptly handed me pens, sketch pads, and art books, urging me to create my first painting. I met other nice students, drank some black coffee, and, almost by accident, became part of the Japanese Arts Masters Club. It all happened so quickly and I’m not quite sure if I’ll fit in here. But it can’t hurt to try it out, right?
My first tasks are to study the basics of Japanese drawing and to learn how to create my own art utensils. Once I’ve accomplished that, I’ll start sketching plants and eventually choose a motif to bring to life on paper. With this, nothing stands in the way of my new career as a painter. Soon, my masterpieces will adorn the walls of the world’s greatest galleries, hanging proudly alongside Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí. Visitors will marvel at my creations, shed tears of awe, and collapse with joy. And to think, all of this began with joining the art club. Or, as the modern Japanese mangaka Imigimuru aptly put it: This art club has a problem! And that problem... is me.
With every blow, every punch, and every kick, his face burned itself more into my mind. The way he had mounted her like a savage, completely oblivious to the kaleidoscope of her dreams, her desires. He didn’t know that she always dropped three lumps of sugar into her coffee, or that she grunted like a little pig whenever something ridiculous happened on TV. He had no clue that she wore pink underwear during her period - a secret whimsy she never told anyone but me. Yet there he was, pressing her against the cold, unfeeling wall, invading her flawless body with his filthy cock, again and again, as if he had any right. He didn’t know her, not like I did. And he didn’t really care.
When they finally pulled me off you, you were crumpled on the dark concrete, gasping, trembling, tears streaming down your bloodied, freckled face. I wanted to reach for you, but I froze as you staggered to your feet, fixing me with a look that stopped my heart - a mother’s mix of exasperation and affection, as if her child had done something profoundly stupid yet strangely sweet. You love me, don’t you? you asked that night, curled up beside me in bed, your fingers passing me a joint as I kissed your bruises. What makes you think that? I asked curtly while touching your shoulder. Because you were jealous, you giggled, your lips curling mischievously. Because Cosby fucked me.
By morning, the sound of soft clicks startled me from uneasy sleep. I saw you sitting on the floor, typing away on your laptop. My gaze flicked to the screen. You chatted with Cosby. The anger surged like a flood. I was on my feet before I knew it, snatching the MacBook from your lap. Your startled gasp barely registered as I threw it out the window. It sailed like a frisbee before crashing below. You blinked up at me, the corners of your lips twitching as if you might laugh. Then you kissed my cheek and shuffled to the kitchen to make scrambled eggs and bacon. Buy me a new one, you called over your shoulder casually, as if I’d just misplaced a pencil. I want to watch some YouTube.
The other day, I asked myself whether I had ever consciously decided to become a designer. The answer was a perplexed shake of the head from one of the little men that haunt my mind. Like much of my life, it was more by chance than sheer will to succeed that I found myself on the path of those who make a living from creative work - or at least try to. Did I have the potential to choose alternative career paths? Perhaps. Did I make use of it? No. Why not? Maybe because I’ve always been more comfortable with subjectivity than objectivity. Does that mean I’m swimming in money, with my art hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York? Yes, no, maybe? Hello? Hello?!
If it weren’t for my almost success-allergic life decisions, I wouldn’t be where I am today: The Department of Design at Japan’s Sojo University in Kumamoto. Not far from the main campus, creative minds, and also me, work under one roof with art students on illustrations, advertising campaigns, products, typography, sculptures, 3D and app design, interfaces, and paintings in every shape and color. This is where I’ll spend most of my time in Japan, trying to channel as much visionary power as possible into my work so that I don’t feel too out of place when it comes time to present my results alongside my fellow students in the University’s very own art gallery in downtown.
We learn to see the world through fresh eyes, engaging all five senses to explore and create. By paying attention to the everyday, we uncover new perspectives and develop unique ways of expressing ideas. Through trial and error, we shape our creativity, finding inspiration in the ordinary and transforming it into the extraordinary. This is a place to grow at our own pace, driven by curiosity and a love for discovery. I’m excited to see how much I can learn from this environment and how well I can complement my skills with impressions from a different world. Perhaps this journey will shape me into a designer whose work might one day hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
When Tsukuru Tazaki thinks back to his youth in Nagoya, he feels torn between gratitude and sadness. Now 36, he leads a bleak life in Tokyo, designing train stations, and living in isolation. For a long time, Tsukuru lingered near death by his own choice. Only his attraction to his new acquaintance keeps him going, their conversations, the hope of intimacy, with his past shadowing him. Tsukuru bears no resentment toward his best friends who abandoned him sixteen years ago. He accepted his fate in silence, tried to drown his sorrow, pursued love, but fell short. Tsukuru remembers the very last phone call with his mates, in which they asked him never to contact them again.
Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage is the sophisticated tale of a man who must confront old wounds to avoid losing his last chance at happiness. The story intertwines vibrant, almost surreal events with harsh realities. Sake, beauty, a hand with six fingers, the truth always just out of reach. It’s a journey only someone with nothing left to lose, or maybe everything to lose, would even attempt. When Tsukuru has time to spare, he buys a ticket, a mug of hot coffee, and sits on a platform in Shinjuku. He watches passengers rush onto the train, sink into seats with relief, and vanish into the night. Tsukuru’s afraid to board himself. But perhaps now he’s finally ready.
Reading Haruki Murakami’s prose, I need a cup of tea in hand. You can hide memories, but you can't erase the history that produced them, he smartly writes. And: As we go through life we gradually discover who we are, but the more we discover, the more we lose ourselves. In Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, every piece fits like a puzzle. Fans of Haruki Murakami’s works will find this story satisfying. The author remains true to himself, crafting the perfect calm book. And in one or two chapters, I find myself caught off guard, reminded of my own past. So let’s brew some tea, open the book, and accompany Tsukuru Tazaki on his journey to a painful past.
After days of rain, Tokyo seemed to sigh with relief as the sun returned. An April breeze carried birdsong and a clear sky over ruby rooftops. On my walk to deliver rent, I passed prowling cats, kids on skateboards, and an elderly woman watering flowers who smiled at me. Turning onto a small avenue, I stumbled on a perfect scene: Cherry blossoms drifting from a pink tree, students in blue uniforms with soft drinks by a red shrine, surrounded by small houses, rusty bicycles, and potted plants. I nearly cried - though maybe it was just my cherry blossom allergy. And clichés. I started wondering how my life might have unfolded if I’d grown up here instead of in Germany.
What would it have been like to live in this neighborhood, shaped by this culture? Would I have been a rebel? A soulless salarymen? Look, it’s Maruseru, the Otaku. The heartbreaker. The dishwasher. The president. The globetrotter. The monk. The criminal. The girl. The one who knocked up an idol and now hosts a late-night TV show. In my imagination, school was a place where you and your friends prepared to battle evil forces in shiny robot mechas. There was always a redheaded tomboy who’d eventually fall for you, along with your perpetually hungry best friend and that shy girl with a talking pet. And yet, here I am now. So... where’s my redhead and my super mecha? Hello?
Whenever I share my admiration for Japan with my domestic friends, they meet me with polite bewilderment. They’re bored of Tokyo, while foreigners like me would give anything to live in this magical metropolis. Ironically, some of them are obsessed with Europe. Both sides are tired of their everyday surroundings. Only the new holds magic, after all. Standing in that small avenue, I eventually come back to my mind, but I couldn’t shake the strange feeling or those gnawing questions. Maybe, somewhere in a parallel reality, there’s another Marcel living out that life. I hope he’s hanging out with redheaded tomboys, perpetually hungry best friends, and shiny robot mechas.
You told me about your family, your boyfriend, school, and the feeling of not knowing where you belonged. You said that Berlin was your last hope of finally getting your life together. I understood that all too well. On the other hand, I shared with you that I worked as a party photographer and had always wondered how I could make so much money from such a pointless job. However, I didn’t tell you about the drugs, the excesses, or the whores who came in and out of my house. I did, however, admit that my father didn’t take me seriously, that my first girlfriend had slept with my two best friends, and that I had once even been in prison. Why? That remained my secret - at least for now.
You can stay with me tonight, and tomorrow I’ll buy you a ticket home. You looked puzzled. Why would you do that? Why would I do that?I have money. You need some. I was raised Catholic. Sharing, charity, and all that.Whatever, but don’t you dare touch me! You were like a mad cat. Fangs, claws, and that look of suspicion, fear, and self-protection. I admired your strength, driven by hurt and superiority. In your sparkling blue eyes, I saw the person I was before I lost all sense of joy. The voices of countless ghosts stirred within me as we finally kissed under the dim glow of a streetlamp. You were a blend of pain and strength. That was the most beautiful thing of all.
We had sex all night, in every corner of my apartment. In my bed, on the kitchen table, against some empty wall. The next morning, you didn’t want to leave. I let you stay with me like my pet. You were my little monkey. I introduced you to my world, step by step, which soon seemed to bring you more happiness than it ever brought me. Essentially, everything we did was just about sex - there was no love, and no dancing. When you let that ugly junkie fuck you in the toilet at Chan Shin’s opening party, while I was taking some goofy photos of wasted partygoers, I didn’t really care. Still, I hit you in the parking lot until your face was covered in blood when you told me, smiling.
Guess who is now officially enrolled at Sojo University in the beautiful city of Kumamoto? That’s right - this guy. Founded shortly after the Second World War, the academy evolved from a technical high school and now offers courses in art, architecture, and various sciences. I ended up at the famous Faculty of Design, where they teach graphic, illustration, typography, photography, video, and 3D, among other subjects. Since I need to earn a minimum number of credits to complete my semester abroad and have no idea what to expect from the lectures, I’ve enrolled in nearly all the courses offered to me. I’ll narrow them down in a couple of weeks based on what I enjoy most.
Sojo University boasts a konbini, several canteens, and even its own hairdresser. There’s also an international learning center where students from around the world can interact with each other and with Japanese classmates. My first day here felt like stepping into one of those generic school animes. Curious people bustled everywhere, J-pop played in the cafeteria, and inspiring posters covered in kanji adorned the walls. Interestingly, I am the only exchange student in my faculty. All my lectures are in Japanese, but the professors and students go out of their way to communicate with me through ambitious English, animated hand gestures, and a variety of translation apps.
Initially, I was quite worried about fitting in here. I’m twice the age of most other students, don’t speak their language at all, and only know the Japanese school system from fantastic tales where usually something supernatural happens in the first chapter. However, my fears have not materialized. The initial shyness of my classmates quickly faded. They either find me personally, or at least the country I come from, fascinating. They’re eager to show me everything they think I’ll find new and exciting and help me navigate the social, organizational, and, especially, communication challenges of my exotic life in Japan. I believe I’ll have a great time at Sojo University - or at least I hope so.
A hapless drifter falls for a big-boobed girl and, during a botched robbery, meets an absurdly undignified end - shot in the ass. This bizarre opener sets the stage for the surreal anime Mind Game. After his untimely demise, NEET Nishi encounters God, who grants him a second chance at life. Seizing this opportunity, Nishi embarks on a madcap escape alongside a failed swimmer and her tomboyish sister, fleeing gangsters, exaggerated cartoon figures, and ugly Frenchmen. Somewhere along the way, the narrative takes a turn into the absurd: A space crew feeds on alien excrement while grappling with the revelation that their salvation lies in the most peculiar of places: A vagina.
The ensemble finds themselves in a whale, where they encounter an old man and embark on a search for life’s meaning - one unbound by the constraints of logic or convention. Attempting to encapsulate Mind Game in a tidy summary is a futile endeavor. How do I capture its fever-dream narrative and eye-popping visuals? Take Nishi, a nice loser with ambitions, who reconnects with his cute childhood crush Myon at a restaurant. A confrontation with yakuza escalates into chaos, culminating in Nishi’s death as he tries to protect Myon. But death is merely a doorway, in a surreal limbo, Nishi defies fate, impresses God, and hurtles back to life with unrelenting determination.
Mind Game’s breakneck pace, sharp cuts, and kaleidoscopic visuals burst forth in an explosion of pure creativity. The film’s audacity left me curled on the floor in a fetal position. If Walt Disney’s Alice in Wonderland and The Rocky Horror Picture Show once pushed the boundaries of my imagination, Robin Nishi and Masaaki Yuasa’s Mind Game shattered them entirely, leading me on a breathtaking odyssey through the vast landscapes of human emotion. A colorful masterpiece best approached with an open mind, and perhaps a hard drink in hand, it’s not for the completely sober. But for everyone else, it’s pure, unadulterated joy. Nishi, God, and yes, even big boobs forever.
As I prepare to spend the foreseeable future in Japan and am passionate about the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun, it feels only natural to learn the language. And where better to embark on this journey, one I hope will ultimately broaden my intellectual horizons, than in the heart of Japan? Exactly. With that in mind, I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library in the vibrant international district of Roppongi. Armed with textbooks, a notepad, and a pen, I began learning my third language after German and English, immersing myself in a world I had chosen for myself. As Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote: The limits of my language mean the limits of my world. Amen, brother.
To make this process both efficient and enjoyable, I decided to invest in the みんなの日本語 textbooks, purchased from the 書泉ブックタワー in Akihabara. This set of books has been an invaluable resource, guiding me through the intricacies of Japanese: Learning the hiragana, katakana, and kanji scripts, expanding my vocabulary, mastering grammar, and picking up useful phrases for everyday life. Like any ambitious student of Japanese, my journey begins with the first alphabet: Hiragana. The word literally means flowing or simple kana, making it the counterpart to the more complex kanji, which no human in the world truly masters because they’re so difficult to learn.
Hiragana and katakana are both kana systems, and with a few exceptions, each mora in the Japanese language is represented by a character or digraph in these sets. Translating words from the Latin alphabet into hiragana is relatively straightforward - I just have to follow the character table consistently. However, two challenges arise: Navigating tricky rules and knowing when certain words are transliterated not into hiragana but into the more Western-oriented katakana. Mastering hiragana is the easiest hurdle on this linguistic adventure. Once I tackle my first kanji, I’ll look back at the simplicity of hiragana with nostalgia. But let’s not dwell on that future just yet.
The first time I saw you, you were sitting in the middle of Alexanderplatz. Huddled together, unwashed, with greasy hair, you hid behind a cardboard sign scrawled with a message that pierced straight through me: I’m homesick. I sat on a staircase a few meters away. You were crying, and people walked past as if you didn’t exist - or worse, avoided you like you were the filth of society. Some downright despised you. Spring hadn’t fully arrived yet, and the evenings were growing colder. I couldn’t bear to look at your miserable face any longer. So, I got up and walked toward you. Come with me. I’ll buy you dinner, I said. At first, you resisted my help. You resisted me.
Eventually, your defenses finally crumbled. You stood, brushed a strand of hair from your face with long, delicate fingers, and followed me at a respectful distance. My name is Sina, you mumbled as you stuffed a massive bite of cheeseburger into your mouth. I couldn’t help but find it disgusting. Why do you look like that? I asked, waiting for an answer and wondering, more and more, why I had brought you here in the first place. My thoughts wandered to Berlin’s nightlife - the hedonistic pull of it. At that moment, I could’ve indulged myself, given in to my desires and impulses, slipped into nirvana, and ended the night with some blow on top of cheap hipster girls in my bed.
You must’ve caught my grin because you started talking again, spilling secrets to grab my attention. Paula and I ran away from home. She’s my best friend, you said, almost choking on your food before gulping down your Coke. I felt sick - sick from your appearance, your smacking lips, and that awful smell. I went to the toilet at the train station, you continued, and when I came back, she was gone. With my backpack, my phone, and my money. That stupid bitch. A tear slid down your freckled face. For a brief moment, pity flickered inside me, reminding me why I’d brought you here in the first place. Smiling, I ordered two more meals. We talked all evening.
Welcome to Kumamoto, a city nestled in the westernmost part of Japan on the beautiful island of Kyushu. Known as the City of Bears, this charming locale will be my cozy home for the next six months as I embark on my exciting semester abroad at the Faculty of Design at the private and prestigious Sojo University. Here, I hope to refine my skills in typography, illustration, and computer graphics - though, of course, I sometimes wonder if there’s much left to improve. Waiting for laughs. I’m staying in a dormitory with other exchange students from around the world, about twenty minutes from the university’s main campus and another ten minutes from the creative art campus.
From my apartment, located in the higher part of the city, I can see the iconic Kumamoto Castle. Renowned far beyond Japan’s borders, the building sits majestically atop a hill, surrounded by a lush green park and beautifully illuminated with colorful lights in the evenings. At the heart of Kumamoto lies the lively downtown area, anchored by the Kamitori and Shimotori shopping streets. These bustling arcades are lined with cafés, konbini, book stores, museums, karaoke spots, bars, restaurants, bathhouses, cinemas, boutiques, izakaya, barbers, teahouses, galleries, and countless other shops. Whether it’s day or night, there’s always something thrilling happening in the city center.
I can’t wait to spend the next months exploring its many offerings and getting to know its vibrant culture. Upon arriving in Kumamoto, I couldn’t help but feel like I had stepped into my own Persona adventure. Much like the game’s protagonists, I find myself in a foreign Japanese city, at a new school, and with a few months to navigate unfamiliar surroundings, forge friendships, and soak up as much as I can - though saving the world might be a stretch. I’m determined to make the most of this incredible opportunity, collecting unforgettable memories and experiences along the way. After all, I know how rare and special this chance is, and I plan to savor every moment of it.
Tatsuya Egawa’s Golden Boy was the first anime that made me realize that Japanese cartoons weren’t just for little boys and girls but could also go in a more adult direction. This was despite the fact that the series aired on MTV in a heavily edited version - if you still remember MTV. What’s Golden Boy about? Kintaro Oe was top of his class at Tokyo University’s Faculty of Law, one of the most prestigious in the whole world. Having mastered the entire curriculum without any problems, he disappears shortly before graduating. Now, he rides his bicycle through Japan searching for the most important things in life: the lessons you can’t learn in a classroom. That’s one way to put it.
In essence, each story revolves around Kintaro encountering a more or less big city somewhere along the road where he spots an attractive girl and immediately decides to pursue her. Literally and figuratively, as while the girl has no interest in him, he does everything possible to impress her. And when I say everything, I mean absolutely everything. Kintaro tutors a wealthy daughter in math, cooks ramen at some restaurant and even cleans dirty toilets at a software company - all just to disappear again before actually getting what he wants. Golden Boy may only have six episodes in total, all fairly similar, but this anime still holds a very special place in my heart even today.
Tatsuya Egawa introduced me to the concept of adult themes in anime and inspired an entire generation of horny teenagers to give it a chance as an adult medium. If you’ve only ever associated anime with Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Spirited Away, Golden Boy will open both your eyes and the door to a sticky world that long-lost souls call hentai. It will even take your mental virginity. Before you know it, you will find yourself standing in a forest of pulsating tentacle penises, with one hand down your pants, watching Japanese schoolgirls being fucked across some parallel dimension until they ultimately explode. But that, my dear and innocent children, is a story for another time...
When I’m not enjoying the crème de la crème of the musical entertainment world, characterized by Italian operas, French chansons, and South American jazz, I immerse myself in the underground bunkers of Japanese idols. From internationally renowned classics like AKB48 to the nostalgic sounds of Morning Musume and short-lived Eurodance groups such as SweetS, D&D, and Folder 5, I know, listen to, and love them all. These groups, a wild mix of personalities, sing about love, friendship, and emotions, accompanied by cheerfully poppy melodies that barely conceal the melancholic undertones - cries for help aimed at suicidal schoolgirls and kinky hikikomori.
My current favorite idol band is Sakurazaka46, which emerged from Keyakizaka46 with its center, Yurina Hirate. They are some kind of sister group to Nogizaka46 and Hinatazaka46 and a rival to AKB48, NMB48, and SKE48. Sakurazaka46 briefly attracted international media attention a few years ago when their predecessor group wore outfits resembling the Schutzstaffel military uniforms of Nazi Germany during a concert. This sparked controversy, and the record company had to issue a formal apology. Despite, or perhaps because of, this incident, fans remained loyal to the group. Today, they call themselves Buddies - and I am really proud to count myself among them.
Because I’m a huge admirer of Sakurazaka46, I couldn’t resist visiting an exhibition in Shibuya as part of their latest single release. The exhibit featured personal messages from members like Karin Fujiyoshi, Rina Matsuda, and Hikaru Morita, along with behind-the-scenes photos, stage outfits, music documentaries, and other smelly fans to mingle with. On a personal note, I had to process the bittersweet news that Rina Uemura and Fuyuka Saito were using the exhibition as a platform to announce their graduation. But as a connoisseur of Japanese idol culture, farewells are part of the experience. Speaking of farewells, does anyone know what Atsuko Maeda is up to these days?
When I open my eyes, snow dust is scattered carelessly next to you. Your breasts glow blue in the moonlight. I haven’t seen such a beautiful sight in a long time. For hours, I watch the highs and lows, the ups and downs, of your being. There’s no longer a trace of the powerlessness I felt after the big quake. My head is clear, yet soaked with the cloudy thoughts of recent days. How much everything has changed - you, me, the two of us. Hugo lies nestled against your reddish-blonde hair, smiling, drooling, sleeping. An insatiable hunger claws at my innermost being. My thoughts revolve around soggy cheeseburgers, greasy pizza, and fried noodles topped with eggs, cheese, and onions.
I get up, not bothering to peck you on the forehead. The fridge is packed with beer, Red Bull, and champagne - not a trace of food anywhere. The room starts spinning. I collapse on the floor, crying, starving. The next morning, when Sina sees me curled up in front of the open fridge like an embryo in the womb, she starts kissing me and doesn’t stop until I open my eyes, take her face between my hands, and look deep into her ocean-blue eyes. Countless stars sparkle there, as if the end of the world and the meaning of life are within reach. My parents’ voices sing a cheerful song, dolphins leap in my mind’s eye. And just as I begin to unravel the mystery of it all, the doorbell rings.
Sina opens the door for the postman without bothering to cover herself. He hands her a parcel and bids us goodbye. Are you hungry? she asks. I’ll order us a pizza if you like. It takes almost an hour before I can finally eat. We sit on the couch and watch The O.C. on DVD. Sunlight streams through the windows. The TV tower looms on the horizon. When Ryan holds Marissa as she dies in his arms, I excuse myself and slide into the bathtub. Sina joins me, and we make love on the cold tiled floor. When I’m finished, she asks, Will you promise me it will stay like this forever? I nod. The package contains a camera I ordered. The first thing I photograph is Sina cleaning the bathroom.
Nothing makes me happier than walking through the rainy streets of Tokyo. After the hot days behind us, with concrete and bones alike melting, I wanted to cheer naked and weep with joy at the sight of the first gray cloud creeping over our heads. The sidewalks are lined with dancing umbrellas, some black, some white, most without any colors, but I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to cower. I don’t want to protect myself from the drops that timidly, then stormily, splash down on us. For the first time since arriving in this city, I don’t wither away when I bravely step under the open sky. I can finally breathe again. Finally live again. Finally savor my existence - if only for a very brief moment.
The rain lures me into the back alleys of Ueno. I stand on a bridge, the clattering carriages of the Ginza Line rattling below, making their way to the next stations. The parks are empty, people hop around under the awnings of storefronts. I feel closer to Tokyo than I have in a long time. Away from the must-see places, I find myself at an unfamiliar corner - between a pharmacy, a shoemaker, and a bus stop. It smells of ramen, cars, and opportunities. A group of yellow-capped children waddles past me in their sailor uniforms. They stare at me. One of them begins to wave and greet me, the others join in, a chorus of “Hello!” sounds. I say “Hello!” back. We are all a little happier now.
I wish for the rain to dissolve my body, for me to become one with this city, right here, right now. I don’t care if I perish forever. I want this place at the end of the world to absorb me and never let me go. Tokyo is my religion, my destiny, my God. If my soul will only find peace when I can proudly proclaim that I am Tokyo and Tokyo is me, then so be it. The sky shifts, trembling blue, red, and black before me, as if watching anxiously to see if the man-made spot of land beyond it will accept my humble sacrifice. But on this day, the love of my life forgoes my gift, leaving me out in the rain. Perhaps Tokyo graciously wants to grant me a few more days within it before calling me to it forever.
Chinese artist Luo Yang and I were both born in the notable year of 1984. I don’t think much about politics, she tells me when I ask about life in her country. And I don’t think it has much influence on my work or my life. I prefer to focus on the people around me, though their lives are, of course, influenced by politics - a little bit. When I ask about the renowned Chinese artist and dissident Ai Weiwei, she responds thoughtfully: Ai Weiwei is a pioneer and an artist I respect deeply. But we come from two very different generations. His work is rooted more in society and politics, whereas I focus on the emotions of the people around me. His struggles don’t confront me directly.
I bring up Ren Hang, who passed away a couple of years ago. He was a good friend of mine, Luo says. I began photographing shortly before he did, and we met at one of my exhibitions while he was still exploring his style. His persistence allowed him to rise above the strict realities of Chinese society and gain recognition in the West. I ask whether Ren's bold, unconventional art will leave a lasting impact on China and the world. It’s hard to say if he’s changed China for the better, Luo reflects. But he’s inspired more artists and young people to have the courage to pursue their true selves. He also introduced the West to China’s younger generation. Ren was a very brave man.
When I mention Mian Mian, Luo responds with a smile. I know her books are well-known in the West, but I don’t know her personally. She’s one of the pioneers who write with their experiences and their bodies. We have a few mutual friends, and I’ve heard about her early, wild years. The girls I photograph share some similarities with her - they are brave, young, lost, and beautiful. What would Luo like to tell the West about China? I’ve witnessed big changes in the generations of the 1980s and 1990s. The younger generation seems more relaxed and true to themselves. China is constantly developing and changing. There will always be more and more young and interesting people.
The Super Nintendo Entertainment System, known as the Super Famicom in Japan, is undoubtedly one of the best things to ever happen to humankind. Games before it were too graphically limited to fully immerse me in their worlds, while everything that came after looked almost too polished to truly spark my imagination. I’d go even further to say that the Super Nintendo’s colorful pixel art and bombastic 16-bit sound represent the pinnacle of video game history. The grey console’s technical limitations became a perfect framework that challenged every passionate developer out there to push the creativity in their games to new heights - and way beyond.
I visited the legendary Super Potato, a pure video game paradise in the heart of Akihabara, the electric town and more or less official weeb mecca district. Spanning several floors, the store is packed with treasures that make retro gamers’ hearts race: PlayStation role-playing games, Dreamcast consoles, Zelda guides, and Final Fantasy soundtracks, most of them priced between ten and twenty dollars - though, of course, the rarest gems, like limited edition figures and scarce versions sold out on day one, come with a premium price tag. And naturally, the store is brimming with an impressive collection of beautiful Super Nintendo games.
On the very top floor, I found a bustling arcade and a small kiosk offering sweets, drinks, and merchandise. Because I wanted to get my wonder soft world, whatever the official slogan of Super Potato means, I picked up the Japanese blue edition of the original Pokémon for Game Boy, complete with packaging, instructions, and a map of Kanto - for the equivalent of just ten bucks. A dream come true. So if you ever find yourself in Tokyo and are a nostalgic gamer, make sure to stop by Super Potato - you won’t regret it. It’s relatively easy to find, just ask any of the other nerdy passersby for directions. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fat Pikachu to catch.
While the whole world celebrates South Korea’s cultural boom and it seems like half my classmates are studying abroad in the country’s colorful capital because of it, we must remember a unique collective alongside veterans like Blackpink, Red Velvet, and BTS, and newcomers like Ive, Le Sserafim, and NewJeans: Balming Tiger, the quirky pioneers of Seoul’s idiosyncratic rap scene. This special group is a blend of multimedia outsiders who throw K-pop from its glittery, polished world into the underground. Imagine Girls’ Generation meets Brockhampton, or Keith Ape meets Abra. I’m hoping to see them live soon, because that would be more than amazing.
Balming Tiger, the self-proclaimed multinational alternative K-pop band, aims to conquer our boring world with their unorthodox style. The collective consists of performers Omega Sapien, Sogumm, BJ Wnjn, and Mudd the Student, producers San Yawn and Unsinkable, video directors Jan’ Qui and Leesuho, visual artist Chanhee Hong, DJ Abyss, and writer Henson Hwang. Each artist in this ensemble brings a distinct artistic identity and energy, showcasing a broad range of versatility. They approach music with a focus on diversity rather than adhering to a single genre. I especially love Sogumm’s soulful additions to the group’s artistic repertory.
Named after the infamous Asian Tiger Balm ointment, the band’s core creative vision is to reflect and represent the current young generation. Their music is a call to trust in our collective selves, move forward, and embrace love. Their debut album January Never Dies, along with their first extended play and other works, are vibrant expressions of today’s hyper-expressive Asian youth, drawing from a wide array of Western influences in hip-hop, electronic, and alternative genres. Songs like Sexy Nukem, Just Fun, and Loop? are as original as they are diverse, appealing even to those listeners who might be skeptical about the aggressive South Korean pop wave.
Tokyo is a grab bag of emotions and experiences. Every turn in a new direction brings a fresh adventure and another story to tell. I love wandering through the bustling streets, shops, and cafés of the Japanese capital. Yet, I am also grateful for moments spent in more or less sacred places scattered across the spacious city. Surrounded by green trees and towering gates, these temples and shrines serve different gods and spirits. The smaller and more hidden they are, the happier I am to find them, feeling as if I’m the first person in ages to rediscover them. I conveniently ignore the burning candles and fresh offerings that suggest others have been there before me.
Sometimes, though, I seek the enlightenment and support of truly powerful energies. Because I need all the assistance I can get to bring my messy life at least somewhat back on track. This is what led me to the famous Meiji Shrine in Shibuya, nestled between the fashion district of Harajuku and the serene Yoyogi Park. The shrine, built in the early nineteen-twenties and dedicated to the deified spirits of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, is divided into two sections: Naien and Gaien. Although the original structure was destroyed in the air raids of World War II, it was rebuilt in the nineteen-fifties through public donations. And it’s absolutely stunning.
Though I’m an atheist and think about gods the way I think about unseasoned food and watery coffee, I still tossed a few yen into the donation box, clapped my hands, bowed a few times, and even bought a wooden plaque, or Ema, to write down a few wishes and leave a small part of myself there. As I strolled slowly through the shrine, watching traditionally dressed miko and fashion-forward trendsetters pass by, I was reminded once again of how much I love Japan’s fluent blend of tradition and modernity. In special places like these, I temporarily let go of my atheism, enjoying the thought of a hidden world intertwined with our own - if only just a little.
When I die, I want to wake up in a paradise of breasts. Large and small, round and flat, pale and dark. They rise from the earth like hills, stretch across the horizon like mountains, hang from trees like branches, and lie scattered like stones. They form the clouds. A river of milk flows before me, bubbling down a gentle slope. I wander through hairs reaching toward the sky, past nipples as tall as houses, some dark brown, some bright red, inviting passersby to rest. Equipped with little wings, they flutter across the ground. I throw myself onto them, pressing my head deep until I can’t breathe, and they laugh, embracing me, celebrating my devotion.
You may call them tits, boobs, or hooters - I’ll call them God. Once a blasphemer, now I find redemption in their marvelous creation. Call me the breast messiah! I am building them a shrine, a church, a temple. Enter and behold the only true faith. Scientists are mere charlatans before my only Savior, reducing her miracles to skin, fat, and nerves - fleeting and nothing more. Doctors slice through connective tissue, glandular lobes, and lymph nodes, trading reverence for a fee. While I understand medical necessity, I decry beauty ideals that defile the divine. Leave God unspoiled! Butchers of the sacred can no longer hear me - their faith died long ago.
Anyone seeking to convert me away from my devotion is hopelessly misguided. I have seen my Eldorado, my paradise, with my own eyes. To the preachers of buttocks, vaginas, and feet: You’re praying to false idols! Let me guide you, foolish atheists. Look up and open your mouths, lest you squander your short lives! My hands wander, my gaze steadies, my pulse races. As night falls, the voices quiet, the covers drop, and I feel her warmth, her softness, her history. She embodies a feminine strength that, in its yielding, demands respect. No force on Earth could dissuade me now, my devotion is eternal. Take my life, God, that I may dwell by your side forever.
Though the Skytree has been a colorful rival towering over Tokyo’s skyline for years now, when it comes to captivating the eyes of residents, tourists, and the occasional bird, the Tokyo Tower remains the landmark of this East Asian metropolis for me. In how many films, documentaries, and anime series have I marveled at this red-and-orange wonder of architectural significance, serving as the backdrop to tales of great love and even greater destruction? Seeing this colorful tribute to the Eiffel Tower always makes my heart beat faster. No journey to the Land of the Rising Sun would be complete without cozying up to the magical metal of this man-made giant.
The communications boom of the fifties prompted the Japanese government to construct a large broadcasting tower to relay information throughout the Kanto region. Additionally, amid the post-war economic recovery, Japan sought a monument to symbolize its resurgence from World War II - one of the most devastated nations rising again. The resulting Tokyo Tower gained international fame through mentions in anime and manga like Magic Knight Rayearth, Doraemon, Tenchi Muyo!, Revue Starlight, Please Save My Earth, Cardcaptor Sakura, Digimon, Detective Conan, and Death Note, becoming a symbol of Japan and its eclectic capital for weebs around the world.
Stepping out of the elevator and onto the observation deck, I see the lights of Minato, Shibuya, and Meguro below. The Rainbow Bridge glows with vibrant colors. Around me, tourists fight for the best selfies, capturing themselves with the sprawling metropolis as their backdrop. Here I am, in the heart of the one and only Tokyo Tower, which graces the pastel backgrounds of Naoko Takeuchi’s popular masterpiece Sailor Moon - the source of my lifelong love for it since childhood. If it were legally, physically, and biologically possible, I would outright marry Tokyo Tower and have lots of cute, little mini towers with it - but I’d probably be deported just for trying.
It’s well known that we do the stupidest things when we’re drunk. Sending our ex-partners blurred nudes. Convincing ourselves that one more vodka and Red Bull will be fine, only to end up vomiting into our pillows an hour later. Or picking a fight with a bouncer. Kobayashi also enjoys getting drunk. The Japanese programmer is alone, and she has time. Time enough to wander into and out of the city with a bottle of sake. It goes without saying that sobriety doesn’t last long. Feeling adventurous, Kobayashi decides to drive into the forest. Between all the dark trees and the grass at night, she meets a dragon named Tohru. And she invites it to her home.
This is how the story of Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid begins - and it doesn’t get any less ridiculous. Anyone looking for normalcy in this anime series will quickly be disappointed. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is an unparalleled cliché bomb, but it’s a fun one. Unlike other conventional anime, here, madness is still celebrated in grand style. Tohru transforms into a beautiful maid when she enters Kobayashi’s tiny apartment - and stays that way. Not much needs to be said about the other characters, because Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid knows it’s an anime, and it leans into it with gusto, bringing in all the familiar tropes with humor, charm, and love.
In Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, we follow the daily life of a woman and her out-of-this-world housekeeper. We go shopping with them, visit a bathhouse, and check out a comic fair. Alongside them, a cast of hilarious characters appear, causing even more chaos. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is fun, fun, fun. From the first to the last second, it’s a show of joke bombs exploding, with appreciation for the characters and the audience. I really wouldn’t recommend Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid as a first anime, but for anyone who has watched enough Japanese cartoons to appreciate the genre’s awkward quirks, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a humorous firework.
If there’s one unsettling truth I hadn’t anticipated, it’s that Tokyo will become a blazing inferno this fall with a single goal in mind: To kill me. The moment I step out of my air-conditioned hotel, I’m transformed into a soaked creature, my sweaty silhouette a testament to a body in agony. All for wanting a little sightseeing in Shibuya, Akihabara, and Shimokitazawa, only to be punished by some evil god, spirit, or yokai wielding the concentrated power of a thousand suns. I was completely unprepared for this unfair battle with climate change, which ambushed me along the way and turned my joyful journey into an odyssey in the blink of an eye.
I have to plan my daily trips through this burning concrete jungle down to the very minute - though, of course, that's hardly possible. If I spend even a second too long away from the air-conditioned havens of subway stations, department stores, and art museums almost sealed off from the outside world, I liquefy into a dark, sweaty, and miserable mess that not even the iciest drinks from the omnipresent vending machines can save. Japan wants me, and anyone else brave, or stupid, enough to face the open air on these diabolical days, to know who’s in charge - and no portable fan, mobile sunshade, or colorful popsicle can spare us from that harsh reality.
The longer I endure this endless game of hide-and-seek with the sun, the clearer it becomes: There’s no point trying to strategize against nature’s brutal counterattack on humanity. My time here in Tokyo is finite, and I’m not going to let a giant fireball in the sky ruin my trip. Stepping out of a Family Mart onto the midday streets of Asakusa, I begin to melt at the first step, as the beloved konbini jingle morphs into the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my boiling head. Fuck you, sun, I think as a puddle of sweat forms beneath my feet, and I slowly drag myself toward the next temple, shrine, or cute maid café for a few photos. I will survive - hopefully.
As I leave the grimy swamps of Velen behind and stride through Novigrad’s gates, a city brimming with possibilities opens up before me. Cheeky rascals dart through the winding alleys of this bustling harbor metropolis, under the watchful gaze of the Eternal Fire that looms over its inhabitants. Banks, brothels, and shops of craftsmen line the streets, and I catch the sounds of singing and laughter from countless pubs. I head toward the Rosemary and Thyme tavern to meet my old friends Dandelion and Zoltan, hoping to moisten my dry throat before I continue my journey to the freezing Isles of Skellige to find the most important person in my sad life: Ciri.
There are few video games that linger in my mind even years later. Games that left an enormous impression, that made me love and appreciate their characters, whose music still echoes in my ears, and whose vivid scenes play out in my mind’s eye. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is one of those epic titles. As Geralt of Rivia, I crept through dark, goblin-infested caves reeking of decay, fought off monsters, specters, and whoresons, and wandered through lost worlds that hinted at the end of our own. And when I didn’t feel like doing my duty as a student of the Wolf, I played cards, got piss-drunk, and chased after fair maidens across Redania’s seedy beds.
Sometimes, I crave the chance to dive into a gritty fantasy world and live beyond the bounds of good and evil. Games like Skyrim, Dragon’s Dogma, and Divinity: Original Sin serve as a unique form of escapism. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is my personal favorite - a vivid universe where I can fully immerse myself. Based on the books by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, the adventure is a rollercoaster of bloody encounters, humorous moments, and tender scenes. I’d give anything to erase my fond memories of that wondrous journey and walk through Novigrad’s gates for the first time once more, in search of peace, happiness, and the occasional fair maid.
Of course, Tokyo has its ordinary side, its normal, even boring aspects. Men in dark suits, towering walls of skyscrapers, and loud, crowded subways. But then, I step through a door and suddenly I find myself in a sugary Tokyo, where everything around me is glossy, fluffy, and overwhelmingly gaudy. When it comes to fashion in all its glorious shapes, colors, and magnificence, the Far Eastern metropolis of Tokyo is a vast and vibrant universe, full of small and massive clothing stores, hidden vintage shops, and independent galleries. Old stores close, and new ones sprout like mushrooms in an endless cycle. It’s nearly impossible to stay fully up-to-date.
What’s even more intriguing than just keeping pace with fashion is the experience of wandering through Tokyo’s diverse stores myself. Especially in Harajuku, Tokyo’s iconic district where styles are created, mixed, and discarded faster than I can say kawaii, the sheer variety of colors adds warmth to the bustling crowds of this megacity. Strikingly printed sweaters, pants, and bags adorned with all kinds of cute accessories fill the alleyways. Style-conscious schoolgirls cast off their dull sailor uniforms after the bell rings and slip into the latest trends they've picked up from stores like Nadia, Honey Salon, and Love Drug, ready to showcase them in the lit streets.
Labels such as Milklim, Kirby, and Jóuetie are all the rage among trendsetters in the metropolis. These can be effortlessly paired with established brands like A Bathing Ape, Comme des Garçons, and Billionaire Boys Club. Harajuku is a true Land of Cockaigne. Every step through this magical neighborhood feels like another adventure waiting to unfold. One moment, Sailor Moon gazes at me from the shelves, the next, I’m standing in a soft toy wonderland, and suddenly, there’s a candy paradise around me. Tokyo is a vibrant wonderland, and nowhere is this more evident than in its peculiar stores, none more dazzling than those found in Harajuku.
Japanese music is a collection of anthems for my own little messed-up world. Whether it reminds me of sad anime episodes, the churning background music in video games, heartbreak, or my first few moments at Narita airport, stepping through the Welcome to Japan banner into an universe of cultural, technological, and human wonder, J-pop and J-rock are always there for me. They plug a little of the constant melancholy in my small, perpetually annoyed and bored heart. The energetic music of bands like Indigo la End, King Gnu, and Asian Kung-Fu Generation is a frequent soundtrack to my thoughts, worries, and desires. And so are Hitsujibungaku.
For decades, rock music from the Land of the Rising Sun was in a creative crisis. There was little sign of anarchy, change, or revolution. Artists in the genre seemed content to strum away as a copy of a copy of a copy, delivering a run-of-the-mill sound that, for good reasons, didn’t resonate outside Japan. They were simply too tame, too dull, and too boring, like rebels without hate - or even drugs. Hitsujibungaku, however, also don’t aim for destruction, decline, or chaos - but that doesn’t really matter. Celebrated by the Japanese press as a smooth whirlwind, Hitsujibungaku, roughly translating to literature for sheep, quickly made their musical breakthrough.
Hitsujibungaku’s songs speak of the search for happiness, dancing in the moonlight, and dreams of an endless summer. When I hear Moeka Shiotsuka’s voice, accompanied by Yurika Kasai and Hiroa Fukuda, I know they mean what they play. In a world full of unknowns, even if you pretend to be smart, you’ll still get hurt, she sings. At some point, you became focused on avoiding failure, giving up what you really want, without even knowing what that is. Not seeing it, overlooking it, becoming skilled only in despair. It’s a bit too early to decide it’s already too late. If anything is worth preserving in our superficial world, it’s this kind of emotional sincerity.
There is no place in Tokyo that feels homier than Shimokitazawa. The alleyways are lined with cafés, second-hand shops, and record stores. A few years ago, the neighborhood in Setagaya was considered a hipster haven, but it has since become a meeting point for those who find Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara too crowded, too loud, and frankly, too mainstream. Visitors who make their way here are seeking slow moments in contrast to the otherwise hectic pace of life. Shimokitazawa smells of pastries, jazz plays softly in the background, and the staff are dressed as if they’ve stepped straight out of fashion magazines like Popeye, Brutus, and Fudge.
At the start of the millennium, the Setagaya City Council released plans to redevelop a large portion of Shimokitazawa, located in the southwestern corner of the Kitazawa district, which included the construction of several high-rise buildings and the extension of a highway through the area. The narrow, winding streets and small alleyways, cherished by residents and visitors alike as part of Shimokitazawa’s appeal, have made this plan controversial, with some viewing it as degrading and overly commercialized. A decade ago, Shimokitazawa Station was restructured, sparking major changes deep in the heart of this charming neighborhood.
As I sit in a bookstore, watching passersby come and go, I sip my coffee and nibble on the mini chocolate pretzels that came with it. To improve my Japanese, I’ve picked up some textbooks and flip through pages filled with hiragana, katakana, and kanji. If I could move to Tokyo, I’d probably settle in Shimokitazawa. Then I’d sit in this bookstore every day, drinking coffee, snacking on mini chocolate pretzels, and learning Japanese for the rest of my life. Banana Yoshimoto wrote in her book Moshi Moshi: When I considered the destruction of the earth, I felt I’d deal with it when I saw it happening, but when I thought of losing Shimokitazawa, I felt real fear.
American director, writer, and artist Larry Clark uses drug-addicted teenagers fucking each other, half-naked alcoholics attending grimy underground parties, and scenes of brutal violence among these often neglected social groups for his movies, photographs, and related works. In other words: He’s one of my favorite creative minds. Larry Clark’s debut film, Kids, profoundly impacted both myself and other members of the Millennial demographic during the 1990s. It makes almost any other portrait of American adolescence look like The Picture of Dorian Gray, Janet Maslin wrote of the unrated movie in her review for The New York Times.
When I was about thirteen years old, I first encountered the anti-fairy tale of New York teenagers Telly, Casper, Jennie, and Ruby, who seemingly have no other purpose in their aimless lives than to drink, do cocaine, and humping the shit out of their friends, on Swiss television, late at night. The events that unfold in this narrative deeply affected me and shocked me to the core, leaving my childhood behind when the credits finally rolled. AIDS, violence, and rape entered into my small, innocent child’s soul, and I have to admit: Yes, Larry Clark screwed me over and deflowered me in the same breath. It hurt like hell - and it still does.
Even today, some quotes, scenes, and faces haunt me and have shaped my life in a rather unsavory way. Like the man without legs singing his plea in the subway car, Chloé Sevigny being raped by Justin Pierce on the couch while intoxicated, which triggered a fetish for white socks in me, and how Leo Fitzpatrick infected both Sarah Henderson and Yakira Peguero with HIV. Kids became a banned phenomenon in many countries in the mid-90s but gradually transformed into a critically acclaimed cult classic showered with awards, recognition, and respect. For me personally, the movie will always remain my first time. Thank you, Larry, you damn jerk.
There’s probably no place in the world that makes weebs’ hearts beat faster than Akihabara. Enthusiasts of Japanese pop culture will find everything they could dream of in this district, known far beyond the borders of Tokyo. From anime, manga, video games, and J-pop CDs to books, trading cards, figures, model kits, cosplay costumes, and even hentai, it’s a paradise for otaku. But Akihabara isn’t called the Electronic City for nothing. For those less into nerdy pop culture, it’s a haven for tech lovers, offering everything from cell phones and computers to spare parts and gadgets. Akihabara is a phenomenon that completely consumes everyone who enters it.
Historically, Akihabara was located near one of Edo’s city gates, serving as a gateway between the city and northwestern Japan. This made it home to many craftsmen, merchants, and samurai. Since its opening in 1890, Akihabara Station became a hub for freight traffic, fostering the growth of a vegetable and fruit market. By the 1920s, the station saw heavy passenger traffic as it opened to public transport. After World War II, the district’s black market thrived in the absence of strong government control, transforming Akihabara into a bustling market town. By the 1930s, it evolved into a center for household electronics, solidifying its reputation in this niche.
Walking through Akihabara’s bustling streets, I’m greeted by big-eyed cartoon characters with even bigger breasts. Girls in brightly colored maid outfits shout cheerfully, offering flyers for themed cafés. The air is filled with the scent of plastic, tea, and sweat. In the stores, young women and middle-aged men alike browse the latest issues of Weekly Shonen Jump, Ribon, and Ciao. Each floor is a universe unto itself - some filled with slot machines, others with art supplies, and hidden ones with cute sex toys. Once I’ve immersed myself in Akihabara’s fantastic anime, manga, and video game world, I may never find my way out again.
As with every nineties nerd, The Legend of Zelda is one of the game series that has accompanied me since childhood. My real entry into the series was the third installment, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on the Super Nintendo. I played this adventure so many times that I knew every area by heart. Thanks to a questionably legal cheat module I picked up at a flea market, I squeezed every last bit of life out of the game. It allowed me to have all the items from the start and sneak past the otherwise stubborn guards on that rainy, fateful day without even beginning the obligatory castle tour. I’m sure Nintendo wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of rebellion.
The stories in The Legend of Zelda games are typically the same: A silent knight tries to save a kingdom overrun by dark forces and, ideally, wins the heart of a beautiful princess in the process. Since this premise alone wouldn’t draw anyone away from the comfort of their couch, the series thrives on tricky puzzles, quirky characters, and an enchanting world full of exploration. Of course, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Nintendo 64 was the game that truly immortalized the series for me. A vast 3D world to freely explore, paired with assets that literally blew my mind. And following that one, Majora’s Mask became my all-time favorite.
For me, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on the Switch is the logical progression from the first Nintendo 64 installment. The world is even bigger, the puzzles even trickier, and Zelda even prettier. There’s probably no other game where I enjoy aimlessly wandering, just to see what I’ll discover next. And I always find something - a deserted beach, a quaint village, a mysterious labyrinth. I only wish there had been a few real dungeons and larger cities with more inhabitants. Running into the same old shrines and stables got a bit tiresome after a while. Nevertheless, Breath of the Wild is an experience that will forever hold a special place in my heart.
Tokyo is much more than just Shibuya, Akihabara, and Harajuku. If I want to experience different places than the usual tourists, I have to go to places that are less well-known but no less exciting. For example, Odaiba, the artificial island in Tokyo Bay, which is a popular entertainment and shopping area for locals. Before 1996, Odaiba was purely a business district. The Japanese economy was at one of its peaks and the island was to become the model of futuristic living. In total, the construction of the island cost over 10 billion US dollars. But the bubble burst in 1991, an event the Japanese called Kakaku Hakai. Half a decade later, the area was mostly abandoned.
After the renovation, Odaiba became a thriving entertainment and shopping center with all kinds of restaurants, stores, and amusement arcades. A giant Gundam statue looms over visitors, who usually arrive in the evening, and there is no end of comics, collectible figures, and knick-knacks. Odaiba is a nostalgic paradise that visitors to the Japanese capital shouldn’t miss. The Daiba Itchome Shotengai, which is located in the middle of a shopping center and seems to be from a bygone era, is particularly worth a visit. Coming here is like traveling back in time. Many families, as well as some nerds, take the opportunity to experience exactly that, right there.
When I enter the shopping street, I feel as if I’ve been teleported to a fantasy memory. There are old slot machines, pinball machines, and pachinko machines. Posters of idols from the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands hang on the walls. I recognize the faces of Yumi Matsutoya, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Perfume. The shelves are crammed with food and bric-a-brac. There are sweets, ice cream, and chewing gum. But also plushies, toy cars, and colorful printed socks. Anime and manga everywhere. I can catch goldfish at one stand, play Mario Kart at the next, and a ghost house awaits me a few meters away. If I died here and now, I wouldn’t even be angry.
Mima Kirigoe is ready to leave her career as a celebrated pop idol behind and pursue an even brighter future as an actress. However, shedding her former image proves more difficult than she imagined, as the murky world of show business threatens to pull her into the depths of despair. The strain of her new path gradually takes its toll, while a menacing presence from her past lurks in the background. Can Mima hold on to what truly matters to her? And as delusion, fiction, and reality blur in her mind, what truly drives her? Mima embarks on a psychologically harrowing journey into the farthest corners of man-made insanity.
Without a doubt, the 1997 film Perfect Blue, directed by Satoshi Kon and based on the novel by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, is one of those anime films you must see before you die. And I was finally able to cross it off my bucket list recently. What begins as a story about a starlet and her obsessed stalker gradually transforms into a web of broken dreams and unreliable memories. As a tense viewer, I descended through one meta-level after another alongside Mima’s unraveling thoughts, until I was left completely exhausted by the torrent of psychotic impressions that overwhelmed me. Who is Mima? Where is Mima? And, most importantly: Why is Mima?
Step by step, I witnessed Mima, sweet, cheerful, and naive at the start, being thrust into a hell of depression, murder, and violation. Who can I trust? When do I stop being myself? And, in the end, which decisions were right - and which were wrong? Perfect Blue is a visually stunning and sonically powerful journey into the darkest depths of the human soul, enhanced by Masahiro Ikumi’s fantastic soundtrack. The film masterfully illustrates how hope and despair are often just an unintended step apart, and how the truth may be nothing more than a long-forgotten thought, quietly replaced by fear, panic, and the desperate search for a redemptive answer.
Tokyo, once known as Edo, began as a small, insignificant dump. It only grew into the most important city in Japan when Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third feudal ruler after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, built a castle there in 1590. If I’m looking to explore beyond the hottest fashion trends, tastiest food varieties, and cutest schoolgirls in Tokyo, beyond Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara, then Asakusa is the place for me. Not only is it home to the hotel where I’m staying, but it also hosts Sensoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the city. For a long time, Asakusa was known as an entertainment district, home to kabuki and rakugo theaters.
Asakusa has a past I could still sense here and there. After the Meiji Restoration, the modern entertainment industry began to take root, with Western theaters and cinemas emerging. However, after World War II, Asakusa’s popularity as an entertainment hub waned, with districts like Shinjuku rising to prominence. Today, in addition to Sensoji, Asakusa is primarily known for the Nakamise shopping promenade and the annual Shinto festival, Sanja Matsuri. I also found many delicious traditional restaurants around the temple, where I could grill and season my own food, as well as numerous pachinko halls where I could test my luck.
This enormous metropolis on the other side of the world has a deeply traditional side. And every walk through Asakusa is also a journey into the past. Just a step out of one of the bustling shopping streets, and I’ll find myself in the middle of a small forest, an old temple complex, or surrounded by lovingly crafted shrines. I can only imagine the small and grand spectacles that have taken place at Sensoji over the past thousand years. Despite all the colorful anime, manga, and video games that I typically associate with Japan, I feel surprisingly grounded and calm here. Perhaps I should visit such holy and magical places more often.
For many years now, I wanted nothing to do with German culture. I switched all my consumption habits to English and looked down contemptuously on anyone still crawling through the oozy cesspool of German-language entertainment because they didn’t know any better. For me, German-dubbed TV shows were proof of bottomless stupidity. German novels fell into one of two categories: Cheesy crime junk set on the Baltic coast, or coming-of-age ‘my-mother-is-an-alcoholic-and-I-just-want-to-fuck‘ bullshit. As for German music, I wanted to hear, haha, nothing about it - just the thought of the whole Schlager-pop-Deutschrap crap made me want to vomit.
Now that I’m older, wiser, and totally at peace with myself (#IWish), I’ve come to finally realize that I can’t tear myself away from my German roots, no matter how much, for whatever reason, I wished I could. I need the German language. I love the German language. I don’t want to reject it. Its systematic harshness is simply divine. And the German language is not just another random dialect on this earth, it’s a shared identity between me and those who use it. I’ve learned that the German language and its accompanying culture can inspire me in ways, especially on a deep, intrinsic level, that no other vernacular can.
So now, I actively seek out people who express their feelings, thoughts, and hopes as authentically as possible in my mother tongue, using it in creative ways, especially in music. Artists like Paula Hartmann, Berq, and Lotte give me a cozy sense of home with their lyrics, even when I’m standing on the other side of the world. My latest discovery is Liska. Her songs are genuinely emotional without descending into cheesiness, and they resonate with me through various feelings and experiences. German-language music hasn’t been this interesting since Juli, Wir sind Helden, and the very, very, very early days of Silbermond.
When I think of Japan, I picture the bustling intersection at the heart of Shibuya. As the traffic lights at each corner finally turn green, crowds of uniformed salarymen, laughing schoolgirls, and amazed tourists stream toward one another, briefly merging into a homogeneous mass before dispersing back into their daily routines. On my first visit to the Land of the Rising Sun, halfway across the globe, the very first place I consciously visited was this iconic landmark in the middle of Tokyo. I took the train straight from the airport to Shibuya, met a few friendly people there, and found myself not only in the center of Japan, but in the center of my world.
Due to the anticipation of the 2020 Olympic Games and their underwhelming presentation a year later, the popular district at the heart of Japan’s capital has undergone significant transformation in the recent decade to appeal to both locals and visitors. I became most aware of this with the redesign of the city’s famous Shibuya 109 logo, which sits prominently atop a fashion-savvy shopping center. The more such signposts change, the more I realize that time is moving on helplessly and doesn’t care about my nostalgic feelings. But maybe that’s a good thing. After all, change is life and the more Shibuya develops, the less I have to worry about its future.
As I stand at the edge of the intersection, I see the red traffic lights ahead, rising above the crowd on the opposite side, and the models advertising clothes, food, and phone contracts on massive screens. I hear the voices of those around me, the eager motorcade, and the man on a platform shouting into the crowd with a megaphone. I smell a mix of expensive perfume and cheap deodorant, taste the green tea I’m carrying in a plastic bottle, and brace myself to feel the bodies of hundreds of people. Then, the moment comes. Red turns to green. I step forward, becoming one with Shibuya, Tokyo, and Japan - neither for the first time nor the last.
When Hikari is thrust onto the recently set up stage of a seemingly innocent chamber play, fate strikes a desperate blow against the most stubborn and dangerous form of conservatism - the one powered by pure fear of being alone. The audience demands change before it is suffocated by the dreariness of the powerful. Fresh blood must pave the way for a new future. Few of the actors suspect that the light of hope conceals a story of self-sacrifice that transcends any level of human friendship. The bright star in the sky seems within reach, but whoever touches it in the end must live on with the possible burden of drifting apart from the ones they love.
Both strangers and friends sometimes ask about my favorite anime. Then I proudly list widely known classics like Neon Genesis Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, and Ghost in the Shell. After all, these titles suggest what kind of anime I prefer and where my roots lie in this sometimes condemned Japanese art form. I also secretly hope this keeps me from being labeled a complete weeb if I omit that I also enjoyed series like Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, and Eromanga Sensei - for various reasons. However, one of my all-time favorite anime is, and remains, Revue Starlight by Tomohiro Furukawa - because it is simply perfect from start to finish.
Revue Starlight follows a motley group of friendly schoolgirls from a renowned theater academy who secretly battle each other underground to become the star of their personal stage in life. When the lazy Karen’s lost childhood friend suddenly appears in class, it triggers the healing of a world whose progress has come to a standstill. Everything about Revue Starlight is exceptional. The characters are fantastic, the animation style is striking, and the music is so good that I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat for days. It’s a shame that Revue Starlight is only known to a few hardcore fans. I sincerely hope you watch it one day and celebrate it as passionately as I do.
The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. Am I running away from myself, or am I simply longing for another world that will make me love my own again? Those who share my destination feel understood only from afar. I stifle my fear of the unknown with the certainty that I’ve chosen it over the comforting arms of monotony on purpose. After all, standing still is death, and death will come soon enough. It seems only logical to sacrifice time with people I like for the possibility of uncovering white spots on my personal map. So, I close my eyes and wait for the moment when the doors to a strange universe open for me.
Before I finally begin my semester abroad in the Japanese coastal city of Kumamoto on Kyushu as a student of the renowned Sojo University in October, I plan to spend a few days in Tokyo. It’s been over ten years since I last visited this enchanted metropolis at the edge of the world, and I can’t wait to aimlessly wander through the wonderous temples of Shibuya, the cheerful bars of Shinjuku, and the farraginous manga stores of Akihabara to see what has changed in the last decade. I’ve booked a room in a modest hotel in Asakusa and will set out from there, day and night, to explore both the bustling streets and the narrow alleyways nearby and beyond.
Having already lived in Tokyo and visited cities like Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama, I feel prepared for the biggest culture shocks and can focus on seeking new experiences and adventures - hopefully beyond the typical tourist attractions. The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. That place is Tokyo, a man-made melting pot of diverse cultures where all my escapist dreams, hopes, and fantasies converge. May I find even a fraction of my expectations between the lives of millions of people. I hope to return home with new ideas, goals, and visions. Perhaps I’ll even meet myself over there, on the other side of the world.
The three sisters, Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika, live together in the coastal town of Kamakura. When they learn of their estranged father’s death, they decide to travel to the countryside for his funeral. There, they meet their half-sister, Suzu, for the first time. Quickly forming a bond, they invite the girl to live with them, and she enthusiastically agrees, beginning a new life with her sisters. Amidst the changing colors of Japan’s four seasons, the young women learn in Our Little Sister by Hirokazu Koreeda from each other, sharing a wide range of emotions and supporting one another through life’s varied challenges, forming a unique and profound connection.
Set against the backdrop of the summer ocean glistening in sunlight, glowing autumn foliage, an avenue of fading cherry blossom trees, rain-soaked hydrangeas, and brilliant fireworks welcoming a new summer, the young women’s touching and relatable tale captures the irreplaceable moments that define a true family. Accompanied by the beautiful music of legendary composer Yoko Kanno, known for epic works such as Tokyo Sora, Petal Dance, and Kamikaze Girls, each scene in Our Little Sister resonates with the main character’s struggles and triumphs. Every piano note has meaning, and every stroke of the violin tells a different story.
Our Little Sister is a light drama about people in different stages of life, scarred by the past but refusing to let it define their future. Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika don’t hesitate to welcome their half-sister Suzu into their lives, offering her the family she never had. As the four women stand on the beach after another milestone, laughing and gazing into the distance, I feel grateful to have met them and the other inhabitants of their town. I’ve shared in their joyful and sorrowful moments, and I hope that the future of these four sisters will shine as brightly as the small fireworks that lit up the overgrown garden of their old house just a few moments before.
Exactly one year ago, I moved to Augsburg. I wanted not only to be closer to my university but also to the people I had spent most of my time with since starting my studies. The city in the far south of Germany welcomed me with open arms, gradually drawing me into its most remote corners thanks to the warmth of various friendly faces. I wandered through vivid house parties, colorful music festivals, and boozy riverside gatherings, made myself comfortable in cozy bars, and spent my nights with like-minded souls. No matter where I ended up at the end of the day, I was always surrounded by people whose true love for the present moment seemed boundless.
Now, my self-imposed fate is once again pulling me away from a life I’ve slowly come to love. With my semester abroad in Japan approaching, I’ve sublet my apartment to a fellow student, meaning I’ll have to say goodbye to Augsburg - at least for a while. I know the city will keep breathing, loving, and crying without me, continuing to be a euphoric playground for all kinds of human escapades. To Augsburg, I am just a fleeting visitor on my eternal quest for happiness. But that’s okay. I realized long ago that staying in one place too long does me no good. Maybe I’m nothing more than a restless nomad who’s secretly afraid of any kind of commitment.
As I gaze over the seemingly endless rooftops of Augsburg, watching the sky slowly darken while the laughter and lights behind me grow brighter, I realize that I will miss this city and the people I’m leaving behind in it. The stories they write from now on will no longer include my name. I’ll become their past. But sometimes, I have to make grown-up decisions, even if I’d rather avoid obligations. It’s not so bad. After all, I’m not saying goodbye forever. And with that certainty, I can dive into my next adventure without any worry. Because, deep down, I might already know that Augsburg is a place I’ll want to return to and stay a little longer. At least maybe.
Before we part ways for a while due to our upcoming semester abroad, I spent a few memorable evenings with my friends. Investing quality time with people I care about is incredibly important for maintaining mental stability and avoiding the depressive phases that tend to creep in when I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long. I’m someone who only understands how much I care about certain people once they’re gone. That’s why I’m a little afraid that I might only realize too late how important the network of friends I’ve built over the past few years is to me - as soon as I step off the plane without anyone else on the other side of the world.
We annoyed neighbors during gaming competitions, sweated up stairs during movings, devoured Asian delicacies on movie nights, flirted in beer gardens and ice cream parlors, emptied cold drinks by rivers and lakes, and fought monsters, priests, and potential murderers during game nights, pen-and-paper sessions, and mystery dinners. There were also afternoon coffee parties and bar visits at the city’s trendiest spots, with deep conversations about life, love, and death. I spent as much time as possible with other human beings, draining my social battery to the max. But it was worth it, because I knew our window of opportunity would very soon close.
I know myself. It can be dangerous for me to cram too many appointments into a short period of time. That usually ends in temporary burnout, leaving me unable to exit my apartment for days, weeks, or even months - and during those tough times, not even my antidepressants help. But just before my semester abroad and the impending flight to Japan, I didn’t have the luxury of pacing myself. Sometimes life gets in the way, and you either seize the moments that come with it - or simply miss them for good. I’m glad I had the strength to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way. In the end, I have no regrets when it’s finally time to say goodbye.
When a brave adventurer has spent the entire day climbing mountains, recovering treasures, and battling giants, while trying to keep every single one of his limbs attached to his body, there are three things that drive him to look forward to the next day: Beer. Meat. And sex. After all, he’s got tough memories in his head, hard-earned coin in his pocket, and an even harder erection in his pants. And he needs to deal with these potential problem-makers as quickly as possible, so they don’t lead to his downfall in the long run. The only question is: Which establishment will help him the most in this delicate matter for the least amount of money?
Stunk and Zel are two prime examples of these now not-so-theoretical fortune hunters. For the jaded human and the high-spirited elf, real life begins when they step onto the streets, now aglow with the city’s colorful neon signs, after a tingling brew at the Ale & Eats inn, run by the ever-bubbly bird lady Meidri. From there, they can slip into the well-oiled, frequently used orifices of willing prostitutes. After all, there are plenty available here, in every conceivable shape, color, and function imaginable. One day, they rescue the angel Crimvael from the clutches of a wild monster and introduce the innocent soul to the pleasures of jolly light girls.
I enjoyed Interspecies Reviewers more than I expected. Stunk and Zel are two lovable, horny guys who want to mount anything that breaths. Their boundary-pushing sexcapades are so colorful, amusing, and over the top that I’d love to see a second season. But for various reasons, it will likely never happen. So I have no choice but to close my eyes, have a few warm thoughts, and imagine myself joining Stunk and Zel’s illustrious troupe, about to get down and dirty in the nearest fantasy brothel. I’m even thinking about getting the manga, just because I want to know which brightly lit establishments my testosterone-fueled friends will end up in next.
I pride myself on having excellent taste when it comes to cultural offerings. The more East Asian indie films from the late nineties I watch, the more superior I feel to the world out there. Although I often have no idea what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into, I like to compare it to jazz: the more I think of tortured cats when I listen to it, the more profound, creative and adult it must be. As long as I’m consuming something that at least gives me the feeling that I’m witnessing something higher, I’m happy. Maybe if I’m able to fully understand Hideaki Anno’s psychological drama film Ritual someday, I’ll become some kind of holy cinephile god - who knows.
However, there are also evenings when I suddenly find myself in front of one or two reality TV shows on Netflix because my friends wanted me to watch with them how the singer from the band Tokio Hotel, you may still know them from songs like Monsoon, Don’t Jump, and... surely another one, getting fucked up at the Oktoberfest, eats curd balls at his mom’s, and drives through the desert with his twin brother in a camper van. The fun went on for eight episodes. At the end I wasn’t much wiser than before, quite the opposite in fact, but at least there was delicious Hwachae with watermelon, mango, and some undefinable goo to eat in the meantime.
I more or less secretly hope that there will be a second season of the series, after all, I’ve invested time in it now, which should have paid off. Will Bill and Marc ever become a couple? How much alcohol can the average Kaulitz brother take in a day without collapsing? And do I have to listen to a certain podcast to keep up to date and because I may have promised someone without really thinking about the consequences? I’ll probably never know. Trash television is a welcome change for my constantly stressed brain. Because sometimes it’s quite a good idea to dive into completely irrelevant parallel worlds with even more irrelevant protagonists in them.
When I think of online role-playing games, I picture a fantasy world filled with dragons, magic, and knights, featuring forests, ice, and lava caves. In this world, I spend months slaughtering rats and bugs as an underdog, just to have a chance at emulating the veterans in their glittering armor. A tyrannical empire on the far side of the continent is plotting to take over the world with monsters and machines. Alongside a busty blonde, a yellow bird, and generally bored people who also pay ten bucks a month, I try to stop this threat by swinging my sword, learning spells, and hiding behind my shield when things get too intense.
I find myself in the Sultanate of Ul’dah. Venturing outside the city, I take on tasks from residents that lead me to a nearby mine, a small train station, and a spooky graveyard. That’s when I see them - the refugees who managed to flee from the so-called Garlean Empire. And while I merrily slaughter monsters, accompanied by orchestral background music, with nothing but my next piece of golden armor or diamond sword in mind, these people, who have lost everything, who had to flee from a fanatical nation that holds nothing sacred, and who are now crammed together, homeless and hopeless, are watching me from all sides.
Collect ten marmot steaks, forge three storm blades, catch eight navigator’s daggers - that’s probably all some players take away from Final Fantasy XIV. And just because I bought a refugee a meal in a video game, it doesn’t mean I’ve really achieved anything. When I finally stand at the gates of the Garlean Empire, armed with shiny armor and a gigantic weapon, everything happens quickly. I’m thrown into the catacombs with a motley group of fighters and mages. A huge machine attacks us. Bored, we beat on it for a quarter of an hour. It explodes. The end. If only saving the world and solving the refugee crisis were that easy in real life.
As someone who typically enjoys gaming with a controller in hand or a keyboard under his fingers, sitting in front of a screen, and snacking while exploring old ruins, bustling towns, or enchanted forests with my illustrious group of virtual adventurers, I’ve found myself more frequently gathered around a table with others in recent years, passing balls, cards, and dice. Whether playing for drinks, stakes, or simply for pride, with the right group, a fun evening was always guaranteed. Together, we played through Poker, Tac, and Dungeons & Dragons, held competitions, and sometimes even invented our own rules to make the games more interesting.
It’s amazing how distinct traits of individual players emerge when they’re placed in a group, seated around a table, and given the chance to win a round or two. They love psychology, fantasy, or social justice and show this more or less consciously in their actions. Some analyze every strategy in great detail, while others dive into the chaos with a naive Leeroy Jenkins mindset. Some try to assist their rivals when they sense unfairness, while others show no mercy. Some lose interest the moment they sense they won’t win, while others persevere until the bitter end. The more distinct my opponents’ characteristics, the more interesting the game becomes.
The game nights I’ve spent with friends have also taught me a lot about myself. For one, my ambition is heavily tied to my mood. When I’m in a good mood, it’s easier to accept losses and celebrate wins. I’ve also realized that the conversations during the games mean more to me than the games themselves. The dialogues that arise are things that might otherwise go unspoken. And finally, I’ve learned that I really hate Tac. It’s just a complicated version of Ludo with cards, for whatever reason. But despite that, I’m grateful to the wonderful people who have introduced me to a world of tabletop gaming that’s so different from my usual digital realm.
Green Legend Ran is one of those anime that rarely appears on cult classic lists published by random mainstream nerds on dusty internet forums. Sure, titles like Akira, Spirited Away, and Perfect Blue are always mentioned, but Green Legend Ran has mostly remained a niche title - quite unjustly so. In fact, it’s one of the few films I ordered as a video home system cassette from a print catalog, alongside El Hazard: The Magnificent World and a music video tape of Bubblegum Crisis. For whatever reason. I actually wanted to get the infamous otaku documentary, but I was too young at the time, as it could only be ordered if you were eighteen or older.
The movie is set on a post-apocalyptic Earth that has become a vast desert following an alien invasion. The attack caused massive climate change, wiping out the oceans and rain. Humanity was already ruining the environment, making some sort of doom inevitable. It’s a theme echoed in other environmentally focused anime, such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, and Future Boy Conan. Green Legend Ran features beautifully crafted characters striving for happiness in the wake of extinction. What begins in a dusty shanty town quickly turns into an epic journey through deserts, forests, and holy cities.
The film bursts with brutal action, cheeky nineties humor, and even a gently touch of romance. Of course, Green Legend Ran can be viewed as a metaphor for the environmental catastrophe we, as a species, are undoubtedly heading toward. Were the aliens summoned by Earth to prevent humanity from causing further destruction? Who knows. If you enjoy adventure-packed anime with colorful characters, gigantic sandships, religious fanatics, and a bit of blood and boobs, you’ll have as much fun with Green Legend Ran as I did. And who knows? Maybe the movie will end up being a not-so-far-fetched future scenario for our real world.
I enjoy cooking with others because I love combining good food with even better company. Of course, I don’t do this with just anyone, but with people who are either close to my heart or just kinda hot. We go to the nearest store together, decide what to prepare while browsing the colorfully stacked shelves, pick out fresh, delicious ingredients, and then head home with our jam-packed bags. There, we chop vegetables, fry fish, meat, or tofu, and toss some noodles into a pot. Meanwhile, we listen to the latest playlists on Spotify, chat about the ups and downs of life, and eagerly anticipate the upcoming feast, enjoying some fizzy drinks along the way.
The real fun begins once the cooking is done. Whether there are two, three, or ten of us around the table, we take a moment to look at each other before diving in, filling our plates with salmon, salad, and summer rolls. Conversation flows freely as we talk about the world and its wonders, big and small, or relax with a Netflix show or two. And if we’re not in the mood for the inevitable clean-up afterward, we simply open a delivery app and save ourselves the hassle, scrolling through pictures of pizzas, sushi, or stir-fried noodles. An hour later we sit on someone’s bed, enjoying some delicious Pad Thai, a cute anime, and some human connection.
Sure, I don’t always need company when I’m eating - whether it’s a carefully crafted meal or a quick snack. Sometimes, I sneak into the supermarket next door in the evening, grab some nearly expired nigiri at half-price, and hope the salmonella gods spare me again, as I wash it down with a bottle of Diet Coke. Dessert might be a handful of cornflakes that I nearly choke on because a Zelda Let’s Play distracted me from chewing. It can be quite relaxing to spend an evening like that now and then, but I shouldn’t rely on this so-called lifestyle all the time, because, as the saying goes, Food tastes better when shared with friends.
Kaos doesn’t have it easy. Not only does the teenage manga tryhard look like a primary school student and have no friends besides some curious animals she meets on her way home, but she’s just learned that her four panel artworks came last in a survey among national comic book fans. Before Kaos considers hitting up with Truck-kun to finally end her misery, her editor suggests she move into a dormitory for manga artists to improve her creative skills and perhaps participate a bit more in social life. Before Kaos knows it, she becomes part of a quirky crew of fanatical artists who all share one weeby goal: to achieve their big dream of a career in manga.
In the anime genre Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, the name says it all. There are no epic adventures, devious villains, or hard-to-guess plot twists. These comfy slice of life stories revolve around cute girls doing cute things - nothing more, nothing less. They go out for ice cream, chat at school, hang out in parks, visit bathhouses, and encourage each other in tough moments so they don’t give up. Shows like Comic Girls are pure balm for the soul when the world feels too chaotic, stressful, and overwhelming. Life can be a real jerk sometimes, but in these colorful fantasy universes, every challenge can be solved with a little courage, fun, and good friends.
In the style of K-On!, New Game!, and Non Non Biyori, the different characters in Comic Girls complement each other, growing stronger together. Little Kaos meets the energetic Koyume, the tomboyish Tsubasa, the shy Ruki, and the somewhat sinister Suzu in the dorm. Each of them has their own fears, but together they can overcome them and make progress in life. And there’s always something to laugh about, often through awkward or embarrassing situations. When I’m not in the mood for earth-shattering blockbusters, I cozy up with a hot cup of tea and watch anime like Comic Girls, enjoying cute girls doing cute things - nothing more, nothing less.
Disco Elysium by Robert Kurvitz takes place in an universe that is raw, merciless, and devoid of empathy. In an era of political upheaval, where the survivors of a brutal war are still wiping the blood from their faces, everyone is searching for the remnants of happiness. Detective Harrier Du Bois, known simply as Harry to his few friends and many enemies, wakes up one morning in a run-down seaside hotel with no memory of his past or the world around him. Alongside his temporary partner, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, Harry has been called to the once-idyllic seaside village of Martinaise to solve the gruesome murder of a cocky soldier.
The dilapidated world of Disco Elysium is filled with fascinating stories, perspectives, and characters. The game feels like a talkative novel that pulls me in and overwhelms me with its never-ending chronicles. Whether I guide Harry through the mystical church, the small convenience store, or the desolate swamplands, the history of a place that shouldn’t even exist begins to unfold. Disco Elysium thrives on its freedom of choice and the unpredictable nature of chance. This freedom starts before Harry opens his eyes and continues until the bitter end, when I realize the path I’ve taken, unaware of what I may have missed. But by then, it’s already too late.
Harry’s case is a quest for self-discovery, disguised as a crime adventure. Do I confront the town’s inhabitants as a drunk bigot? An all-knowing philosopher? Or a charming rogue? I must forgo distractions and become one with the living painting that unfolds on the screen. I have to become Harrier Du Bois. Disco Elysium is an experience unlike any other in both form and intensity. Although Martinaise represents only a fraction of the world shrouded in the ever-encroaching fog, I can sense the drama hiding just beyond my reach. With each conversation, each question, and each new idea, I inch closer to this epic, but I’ll never be able to fully grasp it.
I don’t even know why I’ve been eating less meat lately. The cafeteria serves French fries with ketchup and mayo for a buck. Vegan salami is surprisingly good. And an avocado, hummus, or pickles with a cheese sandwich? The best. My shift away from meat isn’t driven by concern for health, climate, taste, culture, or even the animals. But I can think of reasons not to fill my days with thoughts of roasted pigs, fried chicken, and freshly butchered cows - especially when I can just load up on fruit, vegetables, and grains. I’ve reached a point where coffee is the centerpiece of my diet, and everything else ranks from second to seventh priority.
It honestly doesn’t matter to me whether I’m eating a veal cutlet or some soy-wheat-bean alternative. I even makes me feel superior. When I put my vegan cold cuts on the supermarket checkout conveyor, and the guy behind me has his two-dollar mixed mince, I feel like the more modern person between us. But the main reason is probably that deep down, I’m just a trend follower. Repeat something often enough, and eventually, I’ll buy into it. When I watch footage from grim slaughterhouses where chickens are trampled, piglets are castrated, and cows are mistreated, I think: Maybe it’s time for more cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes to suffer.
I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. I consume milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, eggs, honey - anything that comes from animals ends up in my mouth. And I eat, and love, fish. Salmon, pike perch, dorado, trout, halibut, herring, scampi, tuna, clams, crabs, eel, squid, cod, mackerel, oysters, shrimp, and sardines. As I write this, I’m munching on a more-or-less healthy cheese sandwich with the last vegan salami slice I had in the fridge, topped with some mayo. Maybe this is the start of some life-altering journey. Perhaps one day, I’ll evolve into a higher being who lives on nothing but sunlight, air, and coffee. Only then will I finally be content with myself and the world.
When Arano steps out of the station, his fate is already sealed. The young man of few words came to Tokyo to chase his dreams: he wants knives to rain down, preferably into the hearts of the yakuza, whom he inexplicably hates. Caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs, Arano befriends club owner Kamijo and skater Alice, joining their chaotic world. But the bonds he forges are soon torn apart by greed, revenge, and arrogance. Pornostar is a visually stunning mixture of drama, thriller, and gangster film, drenched in fake blood and sprinkled with a touch of love story, all set against the restless backdrop of the Japanese capital on the verge of the millennium.
Everything in Pornostar unfolds so viscerally that you almost feel like you’re in the room, witnessing lives snuffed out one after another. Arano’s motive to rid the world of the yakuza is hinted at but remains elusive. Kamijo’s fatal step into the underworld is as casual as Arano’s final encounter with Alice, who might have been his escape from the violent fantasies of bloody knives. But, to be honest, I don’t want these characters to find happiness. They’ve chosen to play this deadly game of violence and may even deserve Arano as their vengeful angel. Yet with his first murder, even Arano plunges into an abyss from which there is no escape.
Toshiaki Toyoda’s Pornostar reminded me of Hideaki Anno’s Love & Pop, released the same year. Both directors employ a raw, almost documentary-style of shooting, though the two films actually are two sides of the same coin. One side is filled with mischievous schoolgirls, the other, well, with corpses. If you watch Pornostar expecting any kind of satisfaction, inspiration, or even happiness by the time the credits roll, you’ll be disappointed. I could almost wish for one or two characters to experience their own Grand Summer of Love in Fiji, sliding blissfully into the year 2000. But, as the Bible already says: For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.
I can make friends with many people in a short time. Regardless of the place, the situation, or the person, I can be funny, captivating, and open-hearted, as if we’ve known each other forever. I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my biggest sins and fears, and make them feel understood. I’ll go to great lengths, no matter how difficult, to make them happier just by having met me. I used to take pride in my ability to shut down my shyness, lethargy, and social anxiety, transforming into the opposite - doing the bravest, craziest, and most likable things without overthinking. It allows me to connect with people who would otherwise remain distant.
But I’m a ghost, an empty heart wrapped in flesh without any empathy. The only reason I make friends so easily is because, to me, they mean nothing. And if I do develop a crush on someone, I’ll analyze her intensely, trying to understand the maddening allure, only to lose interest and drop her like a hot potato once I’ve figured her out. I drain people emotionally and then move on, like an unscrupulous wanderer, partying with those around me one moment and vanishing the next when no one’s paying attention. I wonder if I’m just a shapeshifter, echoing whatever gets me closest to my current target - whether that’s their favor, their thoughts, or their body.
Maybe I’m just Frankenstein’s monster, pieced together from words I once heard someone I admired say. I pretend to be human, but I’m nothing more than a parasite, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others. Like a predator, I pounce on the first person who crosses my path, tear them apart, and feast on the remains. But the satisfaction is fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it arrives. Nothing can fill this void inside me, especially not someone who only wanted to be loved, held, or saved, and is now little more than a vague memory in the wake of my bloodlust. Then I move on to the next pretty face, hoping that this time, things will be different.
I love walking. Drop me anywhere on earth, point me in a direction, and I’ll start walking. And when I say walking, I don’t mean jogging, running, or sprinting, but the most relaxed form of movement: strolling. There was a time when my daily step count hovered in the one to two-digit range, but I’ve steadily raised that limit. Three digits became four, then four turned into five. Who knows, maybe five could even reach six, if that’s humanly possible. I now easily manage the completely arbitrary figure of ten thousand steps a day, originally recommended by a Japanese company for marketing purposes. These days, I average around twenty thousand steps.
My success is built on boredom, routine, and distraction. After all, I have nothing better to do, I only stick with things when I’m used to doing them, and I can only maintain something if my mind is occupied elsewhere. When I engage in real sports, like jogging, every single second feels like agony, and I secretly hope a confused hunter will mistake me for a deer and put me out of my misery. But when I walk, I’m surprised to find that I’ve been at it for two, three, sometimes four hours without even realizing it. I drift through towns, across fields, and along lakes, passing cars, people, and the tempting smells of cafés, boutiques, and kebab stands.
I repeat this routine every single day, like a robot. And it works. I enjoy the variety of my route. I know where I can rest, where I can get Wi-Fi, and where the toilets are along the way. This certainty is something that people like me, who might be mentally disturbed, need. While I’m here preaching the gospel of walking, I’m just trying to say that if you want more exercise in your life, find something that doesn’t bore or frustrate you. And now, I’ll slip into my worn-out sneakers, put on a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games, and head out into the world like Hänschen klein. If I do get hit by a bus, at least I’ll die doing something I love.
Every semester, the Werkschau is the grand finale at the Faculty of Design. At this vernissage, students from Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg present their final projects from all areas of analog and digital art. From photography, books, and drawings to computer games and interactive installations, everything that’s new, cool, or just fun is included. There’s also live music, delicious food, and plenty of refreshing drinks, along with many familiar and unfamiliar faces who don’t want to miss out on the hustle and bustle. And if that’s not enough, you can dance into the morning at the after-show party in a nearby club.
I personally had my hands more than full at this year’s Werkschau. Not only was I a member of the generally stressed team that organized this illustrious event, but I also presented my short film Into the Woods, which had previously premiered in a museum. Additionally, I spoke to fellow students about their entrepreneurial plans after graduation for my work at the start-up incubator Funkenwerk, the central contact point for innovative ideas at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg. I even stood behind the bar as a member of the student council to ensure that everyone stayed hydrated in the sunny weather - mostly with beer.
The end of the vivid exhibition also marked the end of my fourth semester at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg and heralded my temporary farewell. It’s amazing how much mental stress built up over the past few weeks and has now disappeared in one fell swoop. I will spend the next month and a half organizing all the necessary preparations for my upcoming semester abroad in Japan. I need to sublet my apartment, finalize the last necessary documents, and attend a farewell party or two before most of my friends disperse into the big wide world. So long, my beloved university. We will see each other again next year.
My collection of Japanese indie movies has grown considerably in recent years. What I appreciate most are the quieter slice-of-life titles that provide intimate insights into the small and large everyday problems of East Asian inhabitants. It doesn’t matter whether the stories take place in the colorful, vibrant streets of Japan’s big cities or among the mountains, lakes, and valleys of rural areas. Of course, the more I feel connected to the protagonists and their experiences, the more the films resonate with me. As Philip Pullman said, After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.
Last night, I watched Emma Kawawada’s My Small Land. It’s about a girl named Sarya, whose parents are Kurdish refugees from Turkey living in Japan. She pretends to be German to her friends because she has had better experiences with this than with the truth. While her father works, Sarya looks after her younger siblings and contemplates her future, as she will soon be going to college. An intimate relationship develops with her colleague Sota, and her feelings become increasingly clear. Sarya wants a completely normal life. When her father’s application for asylum is rejected, the world she has worked so hard to build begins to crumble.
My Small Land is a haunting movie about the balancing act of a young refugee caught between two worlds, searching for her own. As the story progresses, I felt more intensely the inner turmoil pushing Sarya to her emotional limits as she tries to save her siblings from the fate that lies before them. Sarya’s life becomes a gauntlet of cultural constraints, social circumstances, and her own dreams. My Small Land depicts the sacrifices people make to avoid being broken by reality. After watching it, I realized once again how much my privileges protect me from these challenges and the hard decisions that I’ve been able to avoid - at least so far.
I embrace my nerdy side not only through my limitless Japanophilia, which manifests in an arguably unhealthy consumption of anime, manga, dramas, books, and pop music I can’t even understand, but also through my love of geeky tabletop role-playing games. In this exciting fantasy realm, I navigate enchanted kingdoms as a magical dragon warrior, explore small towns overtaken by Cthulhu’s monsters as a clumsy policeman, and venture through enemy spaceships as a trigger-happy hophead. Tabletop role-playing games are like a carefree vacation for my brain, offering a chance to let loose and try things I (probably) wouldn’t dare to do in real life.
A couple of friends and I have been members of a role-playing club for some time now, where we more or less regularly experiment with different scenarios, characters, and rulebooks. From fantasy to science fiction to cyberpunk, there’s nothing we wouldn’t dare to try. Personally, I prefer the bloody horror one shot adventures, where we slip into the roles of unsuspecting citizens who roam through abandoned settlements, haunted mansions, and cursed cathedrals, only to face crazy cultists, hungry vampires, and, in the last dungeon, an overpowering deity and, in the best-case scenario, be torn to shreds by it. After all, survival is only for cowards.
I’ve wanted to try tabletop role-playing games for a long time after hearing about them in various podcasts, YouTube videos, and not least in Stranger Things. So, I’m thrilled to have found other people who are just as eager to dive into other worlds and let their imaginations run wild. Where else can you try to ride angry unicorns, shoot the newly born Antichrist, or drown a doomed metropolis in smelly feces to perhaps save it from its fate, only to realize in the end that all these ideas were rather semi-smart? Exactly. When I’m on my semester abroad, we’ll try to hold the sessions online. And maybe I’ll find a group in Japan that’s keen to play, too. Who knows.
Anyone who knows me even a little bit understands that soccer doesn’t interest me in the slightest. During some World Cups, I am a vague fan of the Japanese national team, but only to the extent that I follow their wins and losses from the sidelines. I generally have little interest in spending several hours watching others compete in sports unless they are characters in an anime or manga to whom I have formed an emotional attachment. In the end, my favorite soccer team remains the Kickers around Kakeru Daichi, even though they only know about winning tournaments from hearsay. But at least they scored a goal against the Falcons once. Yeah.
Despite my general disinterest in any ball sports, I went to a public viewing event in the city center on Friday night with some friends because Germany was playing Spain in the last sixteen round of the European Football Championship. As we all know, our national team lost, but I doubt anyone there cared less about that than I did. So why was I there anyway? Because I realized that it’s essential to socialize regularly, especially when you’re hanging out with people you know, like, and can have fun with. The reason for getting together becomes secondary. It’s much more important to feel connected to others - and eat some snacks while you’re at it.
The time I can spend with these people is finite. And that’s not just because of my own mortality, but because we’ll soon have to say goodbye to each other as the semester abroad is just around the corner. Mine in Japan doesn’t start until the fall, but others will be leaving in a few weeks to explore the world. From Spain to Canada to South Korea, everything is included. We won’t see each other again until next spring. That’s why I’m trying to spend as much time as possible with my friends before our schedules scatter us in all directions. And that, in turn, means that I even watch soccer with them, despite my interest in it being around freezing point.
Although I’ve always considered myself a global cosmopolitan who has long since cut ties with German pop culture, Paula Hartmann’s Kleine Feuer has been my most-listened-to album over the past few months. There were days when nothing else played in my AirPods all day but these 15 songs, from beginning to end, over and over again, morning, noon, and night. Others see ghosts, I only see you, Paula whispers to herself without any empathy. So long shadows with so little light. You send a smiley face, trap doors open. My heart is a ghost town and you are the ghost. The wine at two makes me cry again at three, then I fall asleep.
Paula’s apathetic voice and the bleakly pulsating beats are the anthem of my default emotional state, which I can only escape when I’m with other people, and which I fall back into as soon as I’m alone. The Berlin singer comments on the world I’m trapped in on solitary evenings. Wish we could talk to each other, wish us one last summer. Hear my friends say: ’Everything will be fine one day.’ As long as you swim through the rain and thunder. Where’s our happy home? I’ve forgotten where I live. Listen to our last notes, otherwise silence on my phone. Share no more songs, share no more smoke. Share the stars and the moon.
I like tracks that I can listen to in the background, but also immerse myself in. Paula’s music covers me like a blanket and reminds me that other people feel the same way as I do. The cord of my hoodie tastes like fall and the first birds are screaming in pain. The colorful ravens put on their black coats. A grandma behind every windowsill. The first bus wipes me up and then breathes me out. A brake light beacon in the exhaust, rusty leaves on cobblestones. A quick thought about you and suddenly gravity has me again. Kicks my legs, fall down and break. Your roof turns gray walls into a house. In it, we exchange disappointments for a lifetime.
My favorite project of the semester, which is slowly coming to an end, was a short film I created for the compulsory elective course Motion assets. The topic was Young People and Old Trees. While my fellow students focused on animations to complete the task, I insisted on making a real film and was allowed to do so. After all, I had always wanted to do something like this. So, I grabbed a good friend of mine and we went to the nearest forest together to shoot Into the Woods. I can confidently say that the movie is an absolute masterpiece, and I’m expecting a call from Hollywood any second now to become the next world’s most famous director.
The short film is about a young woman who embarks on a journey into the depths of the forest to meet her destiny. I aimed to combine the flair of The Blair Witch Project with the aesthetics of David Hamilton. The piano music, which I composed while tapping away on my keyboard, is intended to give the story an ominous touch. The countless retro filters I applied to the videos provide the whole piece with a dreamy feel. Incidentally, the ending features a computer-generated imagery firework that makes even Michael Bay look outdated. I really enjoyed the shooting, even though the model caught eight ticks in the process. Suffering for the sake of art.
Into the Woods premiered in a museum last weekend, and interested viewers asked me afterward whether the young woman survived, what the fire meant, and if the movie was an allusion to the climate crisis we’re currently in. I replied that I would answer all their questions in the upcoming second part, Into the Woods 2: Revenge of the Trees. Finally, I’ve acquired a taste for chasing nude girls through nature in front of my camera. Fortunately, I’ve received a bunch of requests from potential models who would like to participate. So, you can look forward to my next magnum opus, which will be shown in an artistic, or adult oriented, movie theater near you.
I love dystopian movies. Children of Men, The Road, Snowpiercer - the more hopelessly the future is depicted, the happier I grin. Classical psychoanalytic theory would attribute my passion for the end of the world to the death drive, the urge for doom and destruction. This concept was first proposed by the Russian psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein in her essay Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being and later expanded upon by Sigmund Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Personally, however, I believe I am simply fascinated by chaos because my life is a minefield of self-imposed rules, and I need confirmation that abandoning them would lead to anarchy.
Last night, I watched Alex Garland’s Civil War starring Kirsten Dunst, Nick Offerman, and Cailee Spaeny. In the dystopian thriller, the President of the United States illegally secures a third term in office, plunging the country into another civil war. A ragtag group of journalists embarks on a dangerous road trip to conduct one last interview with the fascist Donald Trump lookalike before the rebel army reaches the White House to end the man-made horror and restore democracy to the deeply divided nation. But between them and the most powerful man in the world lies a mayhem universe full of racist lunatics, mindless soldiers, and creepy murderers.
The mental appeal of Civil War lies in the increased probability that the world it depicts could become reality with just a few wrong decisions. Many inhabitants of the land of opportunity already yearn for anarchic freedom and want to turn the United States of America into a lawless theme park where anything deemed unpatriotic, or just Mexican, can be shot at. Perhaps Civil War is not just a glimpse into the future but into our present. And because this idea is only exciting until it comes true, next time I’ll prefer watching another unrealistic disaster movie. Preferably something with zombies, asteroids, or ravenous sharks that live in tornadoes.
A few friends and I were out and about at the Augsburg Summer Nights over the weekend. For a few days, the city center transforms into one big party with all kinds of music stages, food stalls, and even a silent disco. But before we threw ourselves into the thundering crowds of the Bavarian town, we chilled out in a pal’s garden right next to the hustle and bustle, treated ourselves to a few cool drinks, and shared some funny life stories. There, I met an amusing sports student whose chaotic love life sweetened my evening, and my psychologically quite committed playmate, with whose help I became the undisputed king of a certain board game.
Unfortunately, I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy the Augsburg Summer Nights - unlike my friends. There were just far too many people crammed into one place. I couldn’t enjoy the various music performances or have a bite to eat in peace. Everyone transformed into a huge ocean of bodies and I felt like I was drowning right in it. I was glad when I finally stepped out of the barrier into the airy freedom again and took a few breaths without being pushed around by a crowd. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was grab an ice-cold Coke Zero from a nearby convenience store and watch the colorful and very loud turmoil from afar.
This experience made me realize once again that although I don’t mind lots of people coming together in one place, I only enjoy it if they move in one direction as quickly as I do. That way, I can simply glide through them like some kind of slippery fish, as I do it in big cities like New York, Tokyo, or even Berlin. For the fun part, however, such events are not really for me. I prefer quieter house parties where I can talk, drink, and dance with the guests without getting run over by a horde of drunken revelers. But after all, everyone has a different idea of fun. And I don’t judge if others had a nice evening or two at the Augsburg Summer Nights. You do you.
It’s an afflicting feeling to know people with whom I once felt very close, but who are no longer part of my life. It’s not as if they’ve moved away, disappeared, or even died, but our relationship has changed so much from one day to the next that we no longer communicate. Not even when we are literally standing next to each other. Then we ignore one another because that’s what you have to do under these circumstances. And if we would usually have talked, laughed, and shared a few worries, we are now like strangers who happen to be finding themselves in the same place and will soon go our separate ways again without even looking at each other’s faces.
I find this situation particularly difficult at times when I experience something interesting or get exciting news that I would otherwise have liked to share with this person immediately. Until recently, these topics eventually mattered to both of us, or at least we knew that the human being on the other side of the city always had an open ear. But just before I mindlessly reach for my phone to write her an update on my world or record a voice message asking for her honest opinion or valuable expertise, I remember that I’m no longer allowed to communicate with my former friend and have to deal with this current challenge piling up in front of me on my own.
The hole that this person leaves in my heart will close. Her profile photo will slide further down in the messages and, at some point, disappear. Other faces will take her place and talk, laugh, and share some worries with me. I will soon have forgotten this once important character and the melancholy feeling of emptiness that she’s causing. It will be as if she had never existed at all. And then I will no longer reach for my phone to share a part of my life with her, because for a brief moment I forgot that this person is no longer a part of it. But before that happens, I wonder if this gloomy emotion I’m carrying around could have been avoided, or if it was inevitable.
The idyllic town of Kumamoto is located on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan and has not only a beautiful castle, an old samurai house, and a colorful landscape garden to offer but also a university that happens to be the partner institution of my college. This means that every semester there is a lively exchange of academics-to-be between these two learning establishments. Some students are sent from Japan to Germany, and some students are sent from Germany to Japan in return. And guess who has two thumbs and is one of the ambitious people sent from Europe’s politically split heart to the Land of the Rising Sun? This guy!
I will be spending the upcoming semester as an exchange student at the private Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I’m going to study creative subjects such as Graphic Design, Photography, and Manga Media in the Department of Design at the Faculty of Art. I will be living in a free dormitory that is only a few minutes’ walk from the university’s campus and available to students from all around the world. The winter semester doesn’t start until October, but I’ll be spending a few weeks in my favorite city of Tokyo beforehand, exploring my old hoods Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara and hopefully seeing some old friends from back then.
The flights to and within Japan and the hotel in Tokyo are already booked. Now I just have to sublet my apartment in Germany and make the remaining travel arrangements so that I’m ready to go to the Land of the Rising Sun for the third time in my life this fall. I should probably use the next few months to improve my Japanese language skills. Otherwise, it could be a bit difficult to communicate with my fellow students and the rest of the locals during my semester abroad in Kumamoto, because I probably won’t get very far with just basics like Hello,Goodbye, and Sorry, but where’s the nearest toilet? See you soon, Japan. I hope you’ve missed me.
I’m not sure if it’s my diet, the sun, or my antidepressants, but lately, I’ve generally been worrying less about my life. Whereas I used to spend weeks, months, maybe even years, doing nothing but creating as many sorrows as humanly possible in my mind, I’ve recently been blessed with a stoic calmness that is almost uncanny. There’s so much free space in my head now, and I can fill it however I want. It’s not as if I don’t care about what happens to and around me, but I take note of it, accept it, grow a little from it, and then continue on my way. Maybe that’s just what you do as some kind of functioning adult - or somebody who pretends to be one.
In the past, even the smallest unforeseeable obstacle would have sent me into acute self-doubt and bottomless panic. But today, I know that difficulties are not only part of life but are essential for me to be a better person tomorrow. And that it is an art to use them to my own advantage. With this knowledge, I don’t waste a second too much on problems that aren’t really problems at all. Not only that: with this newly acquired form of acceptable equanimity, I automatically allow myself to have fun without any, or at least many, regrets. Because when I invest less time in irrelevant conflicts that should be ignored, I have more time for the good things in life.
So I prefer to spend my time with people who also choose to have fun. I don’t care what exactly they understand by this term or why they have decided to do so. Maybe they don’t want to be alone. Maybe they need a distraction from their everyday worries. Or maybe they have simply learned that celebrating the time we spend together has no negative impact on our future. Quite the opposite. Life is too short to spend it only in my own head. It’s always the happiest moments that I like to remember the most. So I try to collect a bunch of them before it’s too late. Because as Frank Ocean once said: Have as much fun as possible! Amen, brother.
Last night I found myself at a house party in a part of town I haven’t been before, where half the girls in attendance seemed to be called Julia. I like house parties. They’re much more cozy than clubs. And you can have intense conversations there, often with people you’ve just met. The birthday girl had gone to great lengths to make her party pleasant. In addition to champagne, snacks, and suitable music, there was a bowl full of little challenges at the entrance that each guest could complete if they wanted to. My task was to transform myself into a so-called woo girl and to cheer loudly even at the most inappropriate moments.
Between the colorful fog machine, soap bubbles everywhere, and a drying rack turned into a beer pong table, I met new people who sweetened my evening with their stories. A photographer struggling with herself, a psychologist from Vienna, and an artist whose individual skills made a packed balcony roar with laughter. I think it’s important to surround myself with new people and be inspired, guided, and encouraged by their dreams, hopes, and perhaps even worries at times when I seem to be at a standstill, at a loss, or generally thinking too much about the purpose of it all. And house parties are the perfect opportunity to meet just such folks.
As I step outside and board the over-punctual night bus with two of the many Julias, I am glad to have been here today among all the cheerful faces, whose laughter from the bottom of their hearts makes me forget my own sorrows. The evening has shown me once again that this city is full of unique and interesting characters. And it is unfortunately far too easy to overlook them repeatedly in my stressful everyday life as I rush through the big and small streets. But it’s worth stopping, listening, and both hearing their stories and enriching them with my thoughts. I’m already looking forward to the next house party - wherever it may take place.
I voted in the European elections this morning. After I bought a coffee at the nearby coffee shop and went for a walk to the next elementary school, where the voting took place, I chose the Green Party because they most closely represent my political views on environmental protection, digitalization, and human rights. I don’t want to leave Europe to the radical left or the radical right. People who trample on our fundamental democratic values out of greed, ideology, or sheer stupidity must not be the ones who end up destroying our chances of a future worth living. Because tomorrow belongs to those who are committed not to fear, but to hope.
I don’t believe in heritage, tradition, and nationalism. Although I was born in Germany, I do not feel German at all, but as a citizen of the world who is dedicated to the wonders and possibilities of all the different cultures this planet provides. For me, the idea of a unified Europe is the logical step away from restrictive borders and towards an open society characterized by a wide variety of people, cultures, and views. Thanks to the benefits, safeguards, and support of the European Union, I have met countless amazing people from different corners of the Earth that I would never have been able to meet without the opportunities of a united continent.
We should be happy to be part of Europe because it strengthens us financially, socially, and culturally. The European Union must be led by people who have only one goal in mind: To improve our community and the lives of us all. By casting my vote, I have helped to ensure that we are hopefully spared a dystopian future in which radicals, fascists, and populists, under the guise of democracy, aim to undermine and destroy it and our very own existences following thereafter. Committing ourselves to the European idea is the best chance we have of a realistic utopia in this period of human history. We are united in diversity, we are the future, we are Europe.
When I was younger, I used to attribute my emotional shortcomings to being a spoiled only child. I had to be the center of attention in every group I was part of. If that didn’t happen, I would go to great lengths to convince everyone around me that I was the focal point of their otherwise unbearable lives. I was an obnoxious drama queen with a distinct main character complex - or maybe I was just bored as hell. I began to realize that my own thoughts would become my greatest enemy. The constant overthinking about everything and everyone led to a melancholy toward the world and its people. Painful memories gave way to a selfish lack of empathy.
The guilt from poor decisions triggered emotional swings that not only affected me but also those I cared about. I grew afraid of moving forward, knowing that even the smallest steps could end in disaster. My mind became a prison of doubts, loneliness, and self-destruction. Escaping myself seemed impossible. Even the smallest hint of stress, anxiety, or unpredictability would send me spiraling back into old patterns and harmful habits I thought I had left behind. Most of my mental energy went toward resisting the madness that loomed just one wrong thought away. I knew that if I gave in, I would be lost forever - and that wasn’t worth it. At least, not yet.
I’ve come to terms with a bitter defeat in my ongoing battle with my mind and realized that I can’t go on without professional help. Without support, I keep slipping into the same mental loops and faulty conclusions. Then I grow more frustrated, lonelier, and weaker. My doctor has diagnosed me with moderate depression. Starting today, I’ll be taking prescription medication to prevent mental crashes, balance my emotions, and hopefully feel happier. I’ve also been referred to a psychiatric ward for therapy. It’s an option worth trying. I hope these steps will help me lead a somewhat normal life, or at least call a ceasefire in the war raging in my head.
I burst through the front door, undress, and toss my clothes onto the bed covered in white sheets and pillows. With a fully charged electric razor in hand, I walk into the now brightly lit bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. A small nudge, and the machine buzzes to life. Anticipation often sets you up for disappointment when it comes to evening plans, but tonight, Alex Turner screams in my ear: Tonight there’ll be some love, yeah, there’ll be a ruckus, regardless of what’s gone before. I place the buzzing razor against my head, and it starts slicing through my hair. Dark tufts fall around me. In a few minutes, I’ll be a new person.
I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and overthinking, with a healthy dose of laziness mixed in. The same pattern always repeats. I mull over the idea of simplifying my life. The more I think about it, the conclusion is always the same: Sure, why not? So I delete it. Sometimes it resurfaces, but I usually just don’t care, and it fades from my mind, my future, my life. If I don’t immediately regret doing it, I know I made the right choice. Like shaving my head, thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self. There must be no more options, just my own unique, individual standard. It’s time to free myself from my doubts.
This is my Britney moment. The key difference is that she did it out of desperation, and I’m doing it as a calculated step in my perfectionist master plan. The freeing sensation I get when running an electric razor through my hair, knowing there’s no going back, is somewhere between orgasm and murder. It’s that good the first time. Afterward, it’ll just become another routine I add to my life. Soon, it’ll be completely normal for me. I look at my reflection in the mirror - no racing heart, no regrets. Just pure satisfaction that I don’t have to worry about this part of my life anymore. And who knows? Maybe Britney felt the same way.
In the distant future, invaders from another world attack Earth, unleashing machine life forms to take over the planet. Faced with this overwhelming threat, humans are driven from their homes and flee to the moon. The so-called Council of Exiles organizes a technologically advanced resistance of android soldiers, attempting to reclaim Earth and secure humanity’s future. To break the blockade once and for all, they deploy a new unit: YoRHa. Meanwhile, the seemingly endless battle between machines and androids rages on in the desolate wasteland. A war that may soon reveal long-forgotten truths about this world and the fate of humanity continues...
Released in the year 2017, Japanese artist and renowned oddball Yoko Taro’s role-playing game NieR Replicant could have easily faded into total obscurity due to its familiar premise. Alien monsters attack Earth, and humanity fights desperately for survival. As if I haven’t seen, heard, and played that scenario a thousand times before... But while I quickly forgot about other works after their completion, even years later I still find myself reflecting on my experience with this stunning sequel to NieR Replicant. The end of the world has rarely felt so radically depressive, hopeless, and philosophically melancholic.
NieR Replicant is an unforgettable experience on many levels. The characters embedded themselves in my emotional core. Keiichi Okabe’s epic music relentlessly crushed every hopeful thought. I sought happiness in a world devoid of hope, only to drown in absolute despair. NieR Replicant delivered this bizarre philosophical journey. Fighting alongside 2B, 9S, and A2 against insurmountable odds, I became part of a story whose true ending seemed to slip further away with each step I took, resisting resolution at every turn. NieR Replicant pushed me to my mental limits, allowing me a glimpse into the abyss of emotional despair.
God had the best cocaine. Nothing was as clear as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table every weekend. God wasn’t even twenty. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a Catholic boarding school for girls. Since God seemed to like me, I always got to snort for free. That made me feel like a freeloader, so I compensated by paying for her drinks at Bar 25. After a trip to visit her parents, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor had it she smashed a classmate’s head against a sink in the restroom, breaking it. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.
For a long time, I believed my drug abuse was responsible for my mood swings. But they persisted long after my last line and still hit me today. Mostly during moments when I was at peace with myself, when I felt grounded, when the world didn’t seem so bad. But the world was bad. It had conspired against me. There was no question in my mind that I was to blame for the misery I found myself in. It was someone else’s fault. Maybe I should have worked harder to convince people of my good intentions. Why had I even bothered to build up my hopes like a fragile house of cards, when it was obvious that the slightest breeze would knock it all down?
These thoughts always hit me hard. Like an enemy who knows me too well, always targeting my weakest points. Because that enemy is me. If I don’t want to listen, I have to feel. It’s my own fault. I might be able to set up mental safety nets that will catch me when these mood swings come for me again. A bag full of comforting thoughts that will protect me from spiraling into the abyss. Truths that still hold up when everything else crumbles into despair. And a solid, unshakable belief in my own value despite my mental struggles. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for myself will one day overcome even my deepest fears.
There they go, the daredevils in their souped-up death machines. After all, anything goes at the Redline. The biggest racing competition in the universe only happens every five years, and that’s why everyone is out to claim the glory for themselves. While organized crime syndicates and militaristic governments want to exploit the spectacle, the racers are gasping for prestige. Joshua Punkhead, a troublemaker who’s never heard of speed limits and crashes his ultra-tuned car into everything in sight, has just one goal: To win the Redline. But there’s another problem - Joshua’s crush, Sonoshee, is also competing and has no intention of letting him take the victory.
The crowd is shocked when it’s revealed that the race will take place on Roboworld. The militant inhabitants of the planet aren’t thrilled about a bunch of reckless racers making their planet unsafe and potentially discovering their hidden weapons of mass destruction. A game of life, death, and even love unfolds. Redline delivers fast-paced, colorful action from the first second to the last, occasionally pausing just long enough for a breather. Joshua is a likable rogue with his heart in the right place. The other racers and supporting characters offer enough depth, personality, or just pure fun to keep things interesting throughout the movie.
Redline is packed with visual highlights, backed by racy music, bombastic sound effects, and one cool catchphrase after another. As the finale approaches, the screen explodes into a firework display of bright colors. But perhaps it’s this very sense of overload - the feeling that it’s impossible to catch everything in one go - that makes me want to watch the movie again. Redline is anything but boring. Anyone who enjoys cool guys in hot cars and even hotter girls who go the extra mile in every scene will appreciate this gem of an anime. Everyone else can keep cruising through the 20-mph zone in their old Fiat Punto and avoid taking any real risks in life.
It only takes a single moment and I fall again. If I’ve just felt happy because something worked out the way I wanted, or at least, for once, I had no reason to hate the world and everyone in it, a second later, I plunge back into the same old, worn-out abyss. And each time, it becomes a little harder to climb out. I’m either drenched in the joy of existence, or nothing makes sense, and it feels like it would be better if I disappeared from the face of the earth. How did everything start to suck again when things were going so well just moments ago? It’s black or white, emotional extremes. There’s no middle ground, no safety net. I either soar or I crash.
What I thought was safe, good, and untouched by negative thoughts suddenly comes under scrutiny again. I start to ponder, to doubt, questioning everything I’d once taken for granted. Mistrust wraps itself around me like a heavy cloak, tightening slowly until it presses me to the ground - where I belong. Was that random comment from the girl I like really meant to be kind? The tone seemed too ironic, the look too mocking. Could it be that everything she’s ever said to me or about me wasn’t sincere? Is there any real proof that we get along well? She’s probably just making fun of me. In the end, she’s like everyone else.
Now I have no choice but to get to the bottom of it before it’s too late. Sometimes, this spiral starts when she doesn’t reply to a message that’s totally casual, funny, and not at all laced with self-doubt. Then I’m back on the same rollercoaster ride I’ve been before, stuck in the same thought loops I keep trying to break - unsuccessfully. I take the same mental paths and always arrive at the same realization: I’m not worth it. I’m not worth having friends. I’m not worthy of love. I’m not worth being attractive. I’m not worthy of being taken seriously. I’m not worthy of success. I’m not worthy of equality. I’m not worthy of happiness. Everyone else is. Except me.
Although life feels like it will drag on forever, and I’m convinced of my own immortality anyway, a bitter truth hangs over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles: I will die. I’m not sick, at least I hope not, but the day I die will come, without a doubt. How am I supposed to deal with this bitter realization without slipping into paralyzing apathy or pure panic, weighed down by my weltschmerz? Exactly: I try to make the best of the time I have left on this planet. This resolution doesn’t always work. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, letting life’s opportunities pass me by, like some fool who doesn’t even understand the fear of missing out.
On days when I have enough energy, curiosity, and hope, I step outside my front door and actively face the universe. I want to experience something new: an adventure, fresh faces, or something I’ve never seen before with my own eyes. It doesn’t always have to be a grand event or life-changing moment. Sometimes, giving the small things a chance is enough. I visit an unfamiliar place - a café, a store, or a nearby lake - or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met or haven’t interacted with much before. Sometimes they’re hilarious. Or, I confront problems and fears with new approaches, solving and eliminating them for good.
I’m often so blinded by routine, that I don’t even consider exploring alternatives. Coffee? Black. Sneakers? White. Girls? Blonde. Sometimes, though, I avoid the unfamiliar because I’m afraid that even a harmless choice will plunge me into mental chaos, forcing me to expend significant effort to regain my balance - only to return to the tried and tested. This has happened far too often, and I can’t ignore the risk. But maybe, the one new thing I embrace on a seemingly inconsequential yet fateful day could be the key to a whole new life. Because no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, every possibility carries the potential for something great.
When websites like MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter emerged in the early 2000s, I was fascinated by the possibilities they brought. Whether I was chatting with buddies, flirting with girls, or discussing the latest One Piece episode with other fans, social media turned the internet into a place where strangers could become acquaintances, and acquaintances could become friends. Social media shaped who I am today. Facebook took me to Berlin, Twitter to Japan, and Instagram to America. I reveled in the benefits of this universe, but I watched with regret as these platforms gradually became breeding grounds for hate, ignorance, and depression.
Suddenly, social media was no longer fun. Still, I didn’t want to abandon the dream of a connected world, because there were people on these platforms who meant something to me. For far too long, I ignored my inner voice telling me it was time to say goodbye to the hollow shell that social media had become. Maybe I was just afraid, or perhaps I was hoping I’d find a reason to keep denying the inevitable. But the longer I stayed, the more out of place I felt amid the angry voices, blunt propaganda, and false promises. So, I had only one choice to finally shed this mental burden that had weighed on me for years: delete social media. And now, I’ve done it.
Besides my retreat from social media, I’ve also stopped using emojis in emails, chats, and text messages. I’ve disabled the buttons that let me decorate my thoughts with colorful little pictures on my phone and computer. My words have to stand on their own. And if they can’t, then I’ve failed as a writer - and as a decent human being. Of course, emojis serve a purpose. They’re meant to fill the gaps where words fall short. Without them, there will be misunderstandings, arguments, and, ultimately, conflicts. But I don’t care about that. As usual, the world should revolve around me and my decisions, no matter how arbitrary or illogical they may seem.
I firmly believe that expectations are the root of all disappointment in interpersonal relationships. Expectations will always let me down, no matter who or what they’re directed at. If I assume that someone I care about will act in a way I expect, I’ve already set myself up for failure. There is no exception to this harsh law of life. Even when expectations seem to be met, it’s often an illusion. Why do people I place expectations on end up disappointing me? It’s not that they do it on purpose, they have their own expectations of situations, goals, hopes, and people. They’re playing the same doomed game, just with different players.
They don’t know what’s going on inside me. And they don’t have to, nor do they need or want to. They have their own thoughts and worries, and they’re busy enough with those. So, should I never place any expectations on anyone or anything again? Perhaps. But maybe it’s enough to avoid basing my entire emotional world on those expectations and falling apart when things don’t go as I imagined. I should aim to be strong enough, so grounded in myself, that the actions of others don’t throw me off course. The more satisfied I am with myself, the more I can tolerate not being the focus of others’ attention. And that’s a good thing.
I must be careful not to fall into the same traps as many others who overthink their lives, relationships, and dreams. Unmet expectations can lead not only to disappointment but also to the destruction of important friendships. Unmet expectations offer valuable lessons. They help me reflect on myself and the people around me. Approaching people without expectations allows me to enrich my life with the experiences they trustingly share, without expecting anything in return. I shouldn’t close myself off to this opportunity but approach it with an open heart - even if I may never truly become part of the world of the one I hold those expectations for.
Mr. Long is not a man of many words. His skills lie more in a particular kind of craftsmanship. Mr. Long is a Taiwanese contract killer, one who asks no questions when given a place, a time, and a target. Mr. Long does what he has to do. And he’s pretty good at it. Most of the time. However, when a mission to Japan to assassinate a local yakuza boss goes horribly wrong, Mr. Long finds himself stranded in a run-down settlement on the outskirts of a remote town. With only five days to gather the money for his trip home, he unexpectedly receives help from a young boy named Jun and the unsuspecting townspeople who fall in love with his culinary talents.
Mr. Long begins to settle into the unfamiliar surroundings. Jun’s mother, Lily, a woman struggling with heroin addiction, also crosses his path. Through her son, Mr. Long becomes determined to help her, using brutal methods to force her into sobriety. Is it love Mr. Long feels for her? Or is it gratitude for a chance at a new life? Trouble comes when a drug dealer tracks down Lily and, through her, Mr. Long. Despite the inevitable confrontation with his past, Mr. Long finds it hard to abandon the life he’s begun to build. A hitman, once cold and detached, is showered with unexpected kindness and forced to surrender to it.
Hiroyuki Tanaka masterfully blends the ordinary with the unexpected. Mr. Long begins as a glamorously shot, bloody nighttime thriller but transitions into the thoughtful realism of arthouse cinema. The Japanese director has crafted a film that is equal parts amusing, tragic, and shocking. I found myself rooting for a happy ending for Mr. Long, Jun, and Lily - a place where they could live peacefully, away from the world’s cruelty. But just as I allowed myself to hope, the past caught up with them. By the end, I was laughing and crying. When Mr. Long finally gazed out of the café window, I felt grateful to have accompanied him on his tough journey.
While you’re lying in bed with your boyfriend late at night, watching Netflix, letting him hold you close, and not wasting a single thought on me, I’m standing at a train station after a boring party, in the rain, with two cold McDonald’s cheeseburgers in my bag. I’m waiting for the last train home, only to indulge in the one thing I was determined to avoid: thinking about you. I tell myself I’m a good person - at least, that’s what I cling to, to keep from going completely insane. I don’t want to interfere in someone else’s relationship, no matter how broken or insanely unhappy I imagine it must be. A move like that wouldn’t suit me.
I wouldn’t be the hero rescuing the helpless princess from a painful relationship. I’d be a jerk, convinced that the only way to find happiness is by ruining someone else’s. No one wants to be with someone like that. No one wants anything to do with someone like that. Especially not the girl on the other side of my crumbling world, whose grin I see whenever I close my eyes. Her happiness should be untouchable, even if she’s decided I’m not allowed to be a part of it. So, the only thing left to do is gather what’s left of my sanity and make the one decision worth following: I have to tear down, burn, and blow up these bridges that lead in the wrong direction.
There’s still hope that I won’t drown in my minimalist melancholy for good. This feeling, with a shift in perspective, could turn into a treasure trove of ideas. I need to draw the right conclusions, not cling to outdated thought patterns. Maybe those other kind faces aren’t just empty shells. Maybe one of them can stir the same feelings in me as the slim, black-clad girl with the life-worn white sneakers. Maybe one of them is just as pretty, smart, and mischievous - if only I give her the chance, instead of dismissing it. And if I’m lucky, I might even forget why I was so captivated by that one impudently grinning girl in the first place.
Hello. My name’s Marcel, and my various hobbies include reading, cooking, and sabotaging my own life. Then I chase away friends, place obstacles in the path of my success, and sacrifice myself for irrelevant beliefs. While normal people know when to stop and avoid repeating the same mistakes, I crave unnecessary drama and go the extra mile. All I reap from these self-destructive tendencies are disappointment, anger, and loneliness. The worst part is, I know when it’s better to stay quiet, when a situation doesn’t need to escalate - but something inside me wants to watch my world burn, over and over again.
With this attitude, I’m putting people through pointless tests they can’t pass, just to prove to myself that these friendships were doomed from the start. That I’m better off alone, because relying on others only leads to disappointment. Thanks to my superior mindset, I save myself the time, which I can now spend alone - trapped in my head with no chance of escape. It’s hard for me to tell who’s truly a friend and who just happens to share the same space. Who’s forced to spend time with me but looks for the next chance to get away. And just when I’m surrounded by people to whom I’ve devoted thoughts, dreams, and hopes, I feel alone again.
Why bother making connections if they’re only going to be shallow, collapsing like a house of cards with just a few wrong words? I could save myself the trouble. I shouldn’t set up false expectations, and if I did get disappointed, I’d only have myself to blame. Should I stop people from entering my life and wave them away before they even get close? Since there’s nothing left but to spend some time together and then say goodbye? It’s unrealistic to form friendships with everyone. It’s enough to share a moment, to enjoy each other’s company before moving on. And it’s okay to dedicate thoughts, dreams, and hopes to those fleeting connections.
Each faculty at our university has its very own student council. There is one for computer science, one for humanities and natural sciences, one for architecture and civil engineering, one for electrical engineering, one for mechanical and process engineering and one for economics. And then there’s the motley crew that I’ve been a member of: The Design Student Council. This is where illustrious people from the three degree courses Communication Design, Interactive Media, and Creative Engineering come together to chat about art, events, and life in general over pizza, beer, and music, as well as to have a bit of a rant about the other student councils.
Through the student council, I got to know all sorts of great people from different areas of the university who would otherwise have remained unknown to me and would have continued to pass me by without a greeting in the canteen. Together we organize flea markets, karaoke evenings, and exhibitions, act as contacts for new students, and try to improve university life with our ideas. Sometimes we spend hours discussing grievances at our faculty, sometimes we try to answer the eternal question of how many primary school children we could defeat in a fight to the death. The correct answer, of course, is seven - everyone knows that.
I am very glad that in my first semester I dared to sit down week after week in a room full of people who were becoming fewer and fewer strangers to me, and through this, from my perspective, quite courageous step, I became part of a community that enriched my time at university in many ways. Gradually, more and more of my friends have found their way into the Design Student Council, and thus to free cold drinks, and rumor has it that I have already spent a night or two in our designated room after the evening got a little out of hand. Every faculty at our university has its own student council - and ours is undoubtedly the best.
Sure, sex is great. But have you ever watched all the episodes of K-On! in one sitting, only to feel such a big hole in your heart afterward that you started all over again just to begin filling it? K-On! is pure joie de vivre, a love letter to cheerfulness, the carefree spirit, and the plans and hopes we all had at some point. The anime teaches you what life is truly about - overcoming fears, gaining new experiences, and finding lifelong friends. No matter how much your soul is eaten away by cynicism and general weltschmerz, after an intense K-On! binge, you’ll feel more content, happier, and more positive toward the entire universe.
Yui’s genuinely carefree attitude rubs off on even the most sarcastic sourpuss. I guarantee it. When she starts high school, she resolves to finally get off her lazy butt and join a club, so she won’t end up as a total loser. But which one? Luckily, the school band is looking for a guitarist. This could be the start of a wonderful friendship and a great music career for Yui. The only problem? She knows absolutely nothing about playing the guitar and has zero stage experience. To make things worse, she gets distracted easily - every time she learns something new, she forgets something else. This is going to be a tough challenge for the rest of the band...
K-On! isn’t an epic saga, far from it. It’s about Yui, her friends, and their shared dream of becoming the best rock band in the world. For those seeking an effective antidote to depression, K-On! is the perfect prescription. With its heartwarming narrative and endearing characters, it reminds us that there is always hope, that brighter tomorrows can be found in good friends, sweet music, and the simple joys of life. So, if you ever feel alone, depressed, and abandoned by the world, watch an episode of K-On! before reaching for the booze, the pillbox, or worse. Then watch another episode. And then another. Until, eventually, you start all over again - forever and ever.
We’re at a party. Strange and familiar faces hover around us, drinking and shouting. Cheerful music fills the air. The garden where we celebrate is lit up in bright colors. You’re having fun, drifting from one bottle to the next, from one taste to another, from one mouth to the next. People are waiting for you to push beyond the limit. Things are spinning out of control. The mood shifts. It’s no longer fun. The night grows darker. You fall, lying on your back on the grass, laughing with the others around you. Your top has slipped up, exposing more than you realize. I walk over, cover you, and pull you to your feet. It’s hard to tell if you’re laughing or crying.
You try to kiss me. I turn away, pressing your head to my shoulder. I love you very much, I whisper in your ear. Silence. I love you too, you answer quietly. Björk’s voice whispers, Your mouth floats above my bed at night, my own private moon. You nestle your head against mine, the faint smell of beer, salt, and cigarettes mingling in your breath. Hair to hair. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse. Just because the mind can make up whatever it wants, doesn’t mean that it’ll never come true, won’t ever happen. Please, could I change that? I can feel your body against mine. Just because she can. This moment feels like the most important thing in the world.
Is that the right thing to do? Oh, I just don’t know. You turn toward me, your face close. Let me introduce one to the other. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Introduce. A mouth to a mouth. Your face becomes mine. I taste your lips, your tongue. Your breath enters me, warm, filled with beer, salt, cigarettes, and a hint of loneliness. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Maybe hope can win. Can I just sneak up from behind? I plead. Now please, can I kiss her? I shout. Is that the right thing to do? The void answers softly, Oh, I just don’t know. There’s a line there, I can’t cross it. I wake up, am lost, can no longer deny it.
I can’t always have what I want. My happiness sometimes conflicts with the dreams and desires of others. And it’s not my place to hurt them just because I hold the misguided belief that I must always be the main character in every story. Every so often, I have to accept that I’m just a supporting role, and that someone else is in the spotlight - no matter how hard that is for my ego. Sometimes I’m neither Romeo nor Juliet, but just some fruit seller suffering in the background. When the black-clad, slim, and boldly grinning girl with life-worn white sneakers, whom I like, with whom I want to spend time, share adventures, and create memories, already has someone by her side, the right path is the one that leads away.
Away from her captivating presence, away from her apparent happiness, and away from the slow-burning pain I’ve become too used to out of ignorance and a bit of masochism. My main goal should be to escape the inner urge to cling to the fading hope that, by some miracle defying all logic, I might still win her over - before I cause irreparable damage to myself and to her. Because all that can come from this desperate attempt is anger, resentment, and profound loneliness. And that’s the last thing I want. Unless I’m already lost. But if that’s the case, it’s too late for me and everyone else around me.
I could avoid these emotional scars by following the advice of others: distract myself, talk to the nice but unremarkable faces, and maybe find someone who could capture my emotions just as strongly as the girl I’m trying so hard to win over. But I don’t want that. Because, to me, everyone else is just an empty shell. And while I know that’s not true, it’s easier to cling to that lie and wallow in my self-pity undisturbed. Heartbreak is more bearable when you give up all hope. It’s easier than facing the uncomfortable truth that maybe I’m not even in love with the girl herself, but with the false expectations I’ve projected onto her from the start. After all, what do I really know about her beyond the few stories she’s kindly shared with me and the connections I’ve stitched together in my mind? Nothing. And realizing that is the first step out of my broken head and into the real world.
I’m standing in front of a wall. It’s big, bright, and mostly empty. Two framed pictures hang on it. I’m trying to focus as much as possible, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re just a few stick figures drawn on white canvases. They stare back at me, a sun in the corner, some grass on the ground. Everything’s black and white. The gallery owner looks bored, typing apathetically on her iPad. Connoisseurs, patrons, and buyers buzz around me. Art makes me angry. People linger in front of the installations, talking about what they see, discussing, praising, and criticizing. They debate what the artist was thinking with this color, this material, this angle.
While some guy jerks off on a screen behind me, I’m staring at stick figures. The price? Around $2,000. I wonder if it would be worth ripping it off the wall and beating the gallery owner with it until someone answers the one question I have: What? Then I feel like a Fox News viewer who votes for xenophobes but masturbates to photos of his underage niece. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate art turns into a junk food-eating, lettuce-avoiding redneck with a Windows PC at home. They would rather watch soccer than go to a museum, choose sugar over vegetables, beer over wine, and vulgarity over muses. Too stupid for art, too conventional for beauty.
I love the art world. The magazines, the books, the cocktails, the chatter, the prices, and the girls with burlap bags wandering galleries on Sundays. It’s just the art itself I don’t get. But isn’t that the whole point? The people in this parallel universe dress better than most Fashion Week attendees. The big, bright buildings that were once train stations, workshops, or factories now serve as an alternate reality to a world torn by war, hate, and poverty. And they’re beautiful. They flood my mind, energize me, spark memories, joy, and a good deal of hate. Why? I ask myself. How? I wonder. Where? I think. And especially: What are you trying to tell me?
This semester, we participated in a workshop with the renowned Hungarian artist István Horkay as part of our Werkwoche at university. His collage posters are famous and have been exhibited in galleries worldwide. In István Horkay’s work, textual significance often appears in varying forms, as contrasting colors emerge on the surface in different areas. His posters are not just experimental - they reflect life itself. It was a wonderful experience to work with István Horkay and his lovely wife, designing pieces under his personal guidance. I created three posters in total, titled The Book of Love, The Bachelor of Arts, and Jazz.
The workshop concluded with an exhibition, held alongside a display of the most beautiful German books. The Werkwoche was a great opportunity to break away from the daily study routine and dive into something new. I look forward to participating again. Additionally, I’d like to share my grades from this semester in Interactive Media studies. In Digital Media Theory, I earned a 2.0. In Digital Accessibility, a 2.7. For the Basics of Software Development, a 3.0. In 2D Animation, a 1.7. In Advanced English Professional Communication, also a 1.7. And for Interface Design, I received a 1.0. I know these grades aren’t perfect, but I don’t mind
I’m just happy that I had a fantastic time, met new people, and strengthened old connections. That’s what college is about, at least for me. Next year, I have the opportunity to study abroad and have been asked to choose a university in a country that interests me. After careful thought, I’ve narrowed my options down to Japan, Taiwan, and Lithuania. In a few weeks, I’ll know where my journey will take me. I’d be happy with any of these choices, as each one offers unique opportunities I may never have again. Let’s see where destiny leads me. Until then, I’m looking forward to my fourth semester - new courses, new people, and new adventures. Yeah.
No matter how far we may find ourselves, we return home sooner or later. To our city. To a world where time seems to stand still. And we feel superior, because no one here even dared to come close to what we have achieved. The streets of the small community are still the same ones we raced down as kids. We know them inside and out. We still dream of the time when these alleys were the veins of our childish existence. As I walk down the main street, my thoughts drift. They rise above the city, and memories surface everywhere. When I come to my senses again, I stand on a small bridge just outside the city.
We ruled this place. We shook it to its core, making it tremble. We passed through its gates at night; we kissed, ate, fought, cried, came, shouted, laughed, and drank. Loudly. Energetically. Fearlessly. So that we might leave our mark. But our graffiti has faded. Our legends have been silenced. Our markings erased. Time has made us victims. The generation that now wreaks havoc in these streets has no idea of what once took place here. They don’t know what we risked, who we touched, how many enemies we made, or how many friends stood by us. None of it matters to them. They don’t care about our names, our places, our sorrows, or our songs.
And then we realize we have no reason to feel superior. We accomplished nothing. Our memories linger as vague shadows, without effect, without desire. They are proof only that we’ve been replaced - by people who find us irrelevant and now write their own legends in the places where our stories once unfolded. But this generation will also return to this place. And they will realize that none of their actions, no matter how wild, passionate, or dramatic, will achieve eternity. That their life, too, is just a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart the moment they turn around. All that remains is the dream of doing something no one before us has ever done.
Since I started attending college, my entire circle of friends consists of fellow students. On the surface, that wouldn’t seem like a problem. They’re all great people with their own dreams, hopes, and goals, and I’ve grown close to some of them over time. We’ve partied all night, sunbathed by the lake, cooked meals, danced, played tabletop RPGs, watched old anime, and had deep conversations about the meaning of life. The time I spend with them means a lot to me. But I’m starting to realize that the age difference between us is causing some interpersonal friction. I’m 40 now, and most of them are around 20. Let’s be honest - that’s not a healthy dynamic.
We celebrated my birthday at a trendy city bar a few days ago, and we had a great time. Expensive drinks, loud music, and a few colorful substances. But it didn’t escape me that I was the oldest person there. I couldn’t flirt with any of the girls without feeling like a creep. Beyond that, I generally avoid developing feelings for my fellow students beyond friendship, no matter how much I might want to at times. Otherwise, I’d feel like I was betraying their trust. But since I do miss being in a romantic relationship, I now feel a bit trapped in this adolescent world. Reality is reminding me that I can’t keep hiding in my imaginary shell forever.
It’s time to grow up. I need to expand my circle of friends and meet people who will help me grow, mentally and emotionally. People with whom I can form the intimate connections that aren’t possible in my current environment. Maybe I need to join a book club, hunt for vintage treasures, or volunteer for a cause. Or maybe I should go to places that attract people my age, like jazz bars, horse races, or wine tastings. Or perhaps simply being more mindful and open to new encounters as I move through the world will help. The key is not to get too comfortable with my current situation. Otherwise, I’ll miss out on opportunities that are waiting just out of sight.
As of today, I am 40 years old. So it’s about time to talk about my midlife crisis. It manifests through constant reflection, waves of depression, and self-destructive tendencies, and externally through the continuous optimization of what I consider my perfect outfit. I’m a firm believer in having a singular look for every occasion life throws at me. While most people wear a variety of outfits, with different colors, styles, and brands, I’ve set myself the goal of finding the ideal piece of clothing for every part of my body. And yes, I know this behavior stems from some glitch in my head. But let’s call it minimalism. That way, I don’t feel completely insane.
I quickly realized that most of my uniform needed to be black. This way, I never have to worry about color coordination. Black always works, looks good, and is incredibly slimming. No other color offers so many wins at once - amazing. Additionally, my outfit has to be affordable, basic, and readily available anywhere in the world. Even if I end up in Guatemala for some reason, I need to be able to replace any worn-out items locally. That’s why I’ve selected a few international brands whose products I rely on to present myself to the world. Of course, I adjust this choice over time - after all, my outfit evolves, just like I do. I’m not dead yet. At least not physically.
Most of my clothes come from H&M. The quality is decent, the price is reasonable, and availability is guaranteed. Their basics aren’t plastered with logos. They’re simple, modern, and well-fitted. So I’ve bought the same black pants, T-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, jackets, underwear, scarves, and gloves multiple times. Wearing too many nameless basics might strip you of character, which is why my cap with the New York Yankees logo is from New Era. And since black looks best with accents, I wear white Nike Air Force 1s with sport socks. The outfit is completed with black Jisco glasses, a vintage Casio watch, and Apple AirPods Pro.
Japan is not only a land of rich cultural traditions, technological achievements, and historical, social, and geographical challenges, but a nation of wonders waiting to be discovered. In recent decades, Tokyo has become a hotspot for pop culture, from fashion to music to art. Kyoto boasts the most beautiful temples, Osaka the most delicious delicacies, and Yokohama the most vibrant nightlife. In anime and manga, wide-eyed space pirates, commanding swordsmen, and brave magical girls come to life. In J-pop and J-rock, both the bright and dark sides of life are sung about. And in novels quiet yet impactful heroes search for happiness.
Japanese pop culture is brimming with love, lust, and passion, exploding in every conceivable direction. Each loud bang brings a new discovery, story, or potential passion to life. I want to celebrate this world of Japanese pop culture - whether it’s fashion, art, music, films, books, games, travel, technology, or food. Whether it’s anime, manga, or J-pop, whether it’s globally known or an eternal insider tip within Japan itself. I’m embarking on a journey into a distant world, one whose energy can be felt, whose courage can be sensed, and whose love can be touched from afar. I want to grasp it, understand it, and hold it close.
I sit in the cockpit with Spike Spiegel, save the world with Asuka Langley Soryu, and wander through ghost-filled forests with Ginko. I dive into the bustling crowd on Takeshita Street in Harajuku, get swept up in the excitement of gamers in front of flickering screens in Akihabara, and sit in a hidden jazz café in Shimokitazawa, listening to the bouncing sounds of Ryo Fukui, Casiopea, and Soil & ’Pimp’ Sessions over a cup of matcha tea. If you enjoy thinking outside the cultural box, are constantly seeking new, exciting, and surprising experiences, and aren’t afraid of losing yourself in a labyrinth of otherness, then you’ve come to the right place.
The second semester of my studies in Interactive Media has just come to an end. Officially, it doesn’t finish until the end of September, but with the semester break starting in a few days, I can confidently say that my first year of college is now behind me. At the end of last semester, I shared my exam grades with you, and I’d like to continue that tradition. This time, I earned a 2.7 in Basics of Interactive Design, a 1.7 in Basics of Audiovisual Design, a 2.0 in Basics of Programming, and a 3.0 in Basics of Web Technologies. It’s been a year filled with new people, experiences, and a renewed zest for life.
I’ve spent the year learning, designing, and programming. We made our own films, built machines, created animations, dabbled in various programming languages, and nearly drained the university’s beverage budget - mainly in the form of beer, beer, and more beer. I joined the design student council and a Dungeons & Dragons club, helped out at events both onstage and behind the scenes, and even spent a few nights on campus after missing the last train home more than once. Next semester, we’ll explore elective modules in design, computer science, and gaming, and we’ll have to decide which country to spend our semester abroad in.
I’m leaning towards Japan, Finland, or Estonia. My diverse studies have truly given me, and I’m not exaggerating, a new sense of purpose. A reason to get up early in the morning. I come to campus excited, smiling at familiar faces, ready to embark on new adventures with people I’ve known for a while or just met for the first time. For that, I want to thank everyone who has been part of this journey so far. I’m really glad I decided to apply to the Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg last year - it gave me this incredible opportunity, and I can’t wait to see what challenges await me in the next semester.
As she makes her way home, I shout the first stupid thing that comes to my mind. The black-clad, slim person with the white sneakers, marked by life, turns around once more, grins, shouts back, and raises her hand. The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise clear air. I look after her only briefly, open the heavy glass door, and once again enter the building which is bursting with dreams of strangers and, in the past months, has turned into our refuge from the mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world outside. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be in love with.
This love has no meaning, no future, and thus no value. I try to find arguments for why it would be much more logical if I had no affection for the impudently grinning girl. But there is nothing to be said for not wanting to dive into this body. How could I resist her sober, disarming, and perceptive charm? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s sassy. She’s either glowing with energy or apathetically sinking into her thoughts. I collect every new detail about her life, like pieces of a puzzle, which, when assembled bit by bit, create a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map that I can use as a guide to discover ever more adventures, memories, and inspirations.
No matter how meaningful I think my existence is, it’s nothing compared to the shows that are playing out in front of my mind’s eye. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be with. But I’m happy about it. This emotion can turn into a treasure trove of ideas. Meaningless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can gain a lesson about myself and the people around me. And hope, no matter how small it may be, dies last. Sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world that is waiting for me out there, in front of these light-flooded halls.
To do justice to my offensive openness, I don’t want to withhold from you how I fared in my first semester of the Interactive Media program at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg. In the Basics of Visual Design course, I passed with a grade of 1.7. In the Basics of Three-Dimensional Design course, I passed with a grade of 2.3. In the Basics of Computer Science major, I passed with a grade of 3.3. In the elective Japanese 1, I passed with a grade of 1.7. In addition, I got a few credits for nude drawing and a trip to the Bavarian Forest. I postponed the exam of Basics of Programming to the next semester because I had not prepared for it sufficiently.
While I’m pleased with the results, I’m also aware that I’ll only be able to master the coming years if I’m able to learn better. I’ve also realized what degree I’ll be pursuing. Bachelor of Arts or Science. We have to know that by the third semester. If the computer science exam gives even a small glimpse of what’s to come, then I’ll try with all my might to cling to the Bachelor of Arts. Otherwise, I might end up empty-handed. You can always justify good or bad art, but computer science is like an out-of-control killer robot. It knows no mercy, only zeros and ones. Pass or fail. Life or death. And I know which side I would be on.
Apart from that, I can say that Interactive Media is a lot of fun, rich in variety, and should be interesting for anyone who feels at home in both the artistic and technical worlds. Most of the entertainment value comes from fellow students with whom you struggle through lectures, trainings, and exams. Unfortunately, I can no longer claim to be a freshman. This temporally very limited term, in connection with my no longer quite so dewy person, had always led to wide eyes and the one or other stuttering in people facing me. I’m excited to see what new adventures await us in the second semester and will spend the next few weeks reviewing the basics of programming to get through the postponed exam just fine as well.
My biggest concern when I started college wasn’t about the courses, the professors, or future fears about what I would do with the degree, but how the other students would react to my age. While the president of the university gave a speech on the first day, the campus was packed with young people scurrying back and forth, equally confused and full of nervousness. In between the guided tours, through the buildings, the city, and the room where the beer fridge throned, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Gradually, the more or less fashionably dressed puppets turned into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.
When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar heads were already smiling at me. Hey, Marcel! I heard from one of the tables cheerfully call over. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Kerstin is the stoner, Jonas is the farter, and Dana is the one who got mounted in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from other students I don’t know yet, no, everyone has to carry their baggage in whatever way. Since that fateful first week, various friendships have emerged from the hundreds of encounters that have taken me all over the city, to buoyant apartments, clubs, and bars.
No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from university, but also from friends, roommates, and relationships of those who didn’t avoid me because of my difference, but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives with open arms. As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment, hooting loudly, and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, into the nearest convenience store to buy a few more road beers, I glance down the brightly lit street. I am now part of this scenery. Because I have dared to do something and have not closed myself off from the unknown. Since one truth is certain: You can have alone time when you’re dead.
Sometimes I meet people whose existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not like I’m overwhelmed with love, hate, or pity. Because the affection I feel for the person doesn’t fit into the emotional template into which I’ve squeezed all previous encounters. It’s not love because I’m not consumed by jealousy, desire, or grief. It’s not hate because I finally feel a touch of empathy again. And it’s not pity because any supposed fragility I see in the other is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies. But I want to know everything about the girl. Even the smallest banalities become significant, important, and even overrated.
Maybe she’s just a normal girl who wants to cope with herself and the chaotic world around her and has enough to do with that alone, and I just imagine being just a little bit infatuated with her and her secrets, because I can thereby ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. I can only receive the happiness of myself when I have found out how the other person defines happiness. After all, reality will be able to wait that long for me. I rack my brain over the question which emotion I feel now. If I could think of a name for it, it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it aside, to cope with it.
The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to deal with it. The worst thing about it is that I may have no right to it. I’m nothing more than some random guy in the background. Maybe it doesn’t even make sense to find a meaning for it. Because it can disappear as quickly as it came. Soon the girl has moved on again. On to new scenes, people, and stories. While I linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, gazing after the once so disarmingly smiling silhouette, only to have forgotten shortly afterward that the feeling without a name ever existed.
After the more or less sudden end of AMY&PINK, I felt lost. By my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What was there to come of it now? Except a heart attack from too many frozen pizzas, too little exercise, and too much jerking off to dubious porn. The only things that kept me alive were the interminable voicemails from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at this point, the programming course that the employment office forced on me so that I wouldn’t be completely useless to society, and the fact that I was much too lazy and cowardly to commit suicide.
On a hot summer day, I went to Munich. After I had bought a book about Japanese pop culture, I sat down on a bench to skim through it. I noticed that I was in front of the city’s university. Young people were swarming around, chatting, laughing. The large buildings watched over the small figures, most of them scurrying around frantically, whose future would be formed in them.Two fashionable women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had registered just in time for the entrance exam for the upcoming winter semester. The brunette marveled somewhat exaggeratedly. I hope she gets in!For sure!
I was sad that I never had the opportunity to become a student. When I got back home, I was interested in what I was allowed to study with my qualifications. Communication design. Graphic design. Interactive media. The last one sounded cool. I filled out the application form from the nearest university and was invited to the entrance exam and the following interview. Then I was a student. A few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life was over, that there was nothing more to come. But suddenly I found myself in a new story, with new goals, new tasks and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun. After all, I’m a student for life.
Yusuke looks out the window. Under the voice of his late wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t even notice another person sitting in front of him in the red Saab 900 Turbo, while he fills in the sentences’ gaps with his own words. Misaki will soon get him to a place where he can finally find himself. I watched Drive My Car by Ryusuke Hamaguchi last night. The Oscar-winning Best International Film, based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women, recounts the experiences of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen - least of all themselves.
Successful stage actor and director Yusuke lives in Tokyo and is married to Oto, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he couldn’t truly understand her. Two years later, Yusuke accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. There, he meets Misaki, a young chauffeur hiding a traumatic past of her own. His increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to confront uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife.
Misaki’s character reminds me of someone I know. Her sober, disarming, and perceptive manner invites me to want to know more about her. The conversations in Drive My Car are like dances with the purpose of building bridges to other people. Only those who haven’t even begun to try to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething, bursting with human emotions. Its characters have shed any childishness and try to maneuver themselves safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit to themselves at the end that they cannot drive away from the past - not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.
People still ask me what happened to AMY&PINK. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days in Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their denial of reality. The answer is: I don’t know. Maybe things just have to end at some point, before they are artificially kept alive. At the beginning of the new decade, AMY&PINK was the digital destination for rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists. We were invited by big brands to events all over the world, all because we wrote weird things on the internet, used swear words all the time, and posted images of vomiting naked girls and swastikas made of cocaine.
The problem was that I maneuvered AMY&PINK into a spiral of absurdity. While everything was initially funny, ironic, and over the top, at some point a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be more outrageous than everyone else, while on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer explicit images. As a result, more and more irrelevant articles took over the front page. If I were even a fraction as cool as I pretended to be in my articles, I should have doused AMY&PINK with gasoline years ago, set it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion as I walked away with a crazy smile toward the camera.
But I’m not cool. In the end, I put way too much time into saving AMY&PINK - time that I should have invested in important things like getting a real job, having children, planting trees, building houses, and other meaningful pursuits. So one morning, I sat down and purged the server. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. It was finally over. I learned a lot from AMY&PINK. But now it’s time to let it rest and start something new. After all, the world out there is huge, and the possibilities to find happiness are limitless. You just have to have the courage to let go, reach out to the unknown, and let it lead you to new adventures - before it’s finally too late.
When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza through the streets of my hometown, crisscrossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears blaring from my speakers. No, it was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Kumi Koda was her name. Butterfly was the song. My girlfriend at the time, huddled in the passenger seat, was ashamed of me as we drove past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly at full volume. Of course, it makes absolutely no sense that I listen to Japanese music. I’m, surprise, surprise, not Japanese after all. Wow.
With songs like First Love, Secret Base, and Rewrite, I can weave together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal closing credits. Fantasize my life on the other side of the world. J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a kid, listening to foreign songs on the radio and not yet having to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Japanese music is melodic, emotional, and has an intangible power that can otherwise only be experienced by accidentally standing between sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old girl dressed as Rem from Re:Zero at some random anime convention.
Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But J-pop songs are the anthems of my own little screwed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care if I listen to their songs, adore the stars, and watch the music videos. I don’t exist for them. J-pop is a huge personal playlist. Just for me. I can dance to it. Laugh. Cry. I’m fully aware that with the revelation that I love J-pop, I have lost any chance of future sexual intercourse with another human being. Forever. So I sit here, close my eyes, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. As they confidently sing about せかい, ドキドキ, and はなび. And I’m happy.
This blog has changed repeatedly over the past years. It started as a small diary of a Bavarian media designer and evolved into a collection of stories from creative minds across Germany and beyond. It transformed from the bible of Berlin nightlife to a tabloid for hipsters. From a digital news site to a nonstop ticker of viral happenings. Eventually, I faced a monstrosity of false expectations and hopeless prospects. This website tried to be everything but collapsed under the weight of not being able to do anything right. For various reasons, I had forgotten what this blog was truly about and aimed to stay relevant at all costs in the fast-paced media chaos.
Looking ahead, there was only one choice: keeping up. Keeping up with the news. Keeping up with the trends. Keeping up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. At some point, I was blindly churning out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and sensational content in a completely irrelevant mix. The blog had become filled to the bursting point with nonsense. By the end, all I wanted was for it to be over. One last night, soaked in cheap wine from the convenience store, I rummaged through the old texts. The ones I had published when blogs were just getting big, when life was still a game, and when everything seemed right with the world.
I realized there was only one way to save my blog: To do the opposite of what I had done in recent years. My blog should once again become a peaceful garden amid a jungle of nonsense. A place where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profound reflections on the transience of life or simply marvel at a few pretty images of even prettier adventures. Everyone is welcome to look around and take with them the thoughts and opinions they find important, right, or amusing. I would be happy if I could continue to accompany you, entertain, and inspire you a little on your turbulent life journey - doing it my way.