A story from when I was a student.
From Kabukicho to Golden Gai in Shinjuku, we talked until dawn at a small bar with a counter.
Writers, editors, actors and filmmakers.
There was a mysterious old man who called himself an unsold young egg or a former director of an old man.
A self-proclaimed film critic who spoke ill of the master director.
The student activists looked at life from an angle, and they were all people who seemed to be dragging something down.
No one spoke of a bright future.
All of them cherish the mistakes of their past lives like some kind of nostalgic memory.
If you get drunk, all the pitiful men talk about the heartache of a past heartbreak like a nostalgic memory.
So the mom at the counter was like a nanny who gently encouraged her.
When I get drunk, I go to a movie theater in Kabukicho to wake myself up.
Sci-fi, mystery, action.
In other words, it’s all movies with stimulating images that don’t have much to do with the story.
I think I was sleeping most of the time.
At dawn, we had a set meal of grilled fish at the 24-hour cafeteria under the railroad guard, mixed with uncles who were working on the road late at night.
Many people were drinking beer after work.
Still, I can’t go home, so I’m sitting on a bench at Shinjuku Gyoen until noon.
I think it was around that time.
As a countermeasure against vagrants, I separated the seats with iron so that they could not lie down on the bench.
When the sun rises and it’s time to get dazzling, I come home.
His parents are away playing golf.
When I get into bed, I can’t sleep, so I read a book until the beginning of the week.
I have about 20 books piled up at my bedside, and I read endlessly until the beginning of the week.
I’m stuck in bed until I read it all.
Until the alcohol runs out, she stays in bed and stays in her bedroom.
Even now, even if I don’t drink at all, I still read in bed on weekends.
Looking at the spines of the piled books makes me happy.
The feeling before the curtain is lifted at the theater.
You can say that boxes of sweets are piled up next to the pillow.
But that excitement and uplifting feeling is gone now.
Is this what it feels like to sit in Mt. Hiei and meditate?
Every day in the real world of carnage and time spent alone.
It doesn’t have the elegance of a weekend villa.
But quiet old man time isn’t so bad either.
Coffee in my youth turned to tea.
It’s fun to cook rice for one person.
It’s called an old man’s house, so I feel lonely.
I guess it’s called Solo Camp now.
Pulse oximeter 98/99/99
Body temperature 36.0 Blood sugar 174
Pitching a tent in Ginza
CEO, Yasunari Koyama