The euphonious Roxy Music drawl lathers itself with the lights of Tokyo, and two souls unite for an interlude, escaping sojourns and commitments, burdens and trivialities.
It’s fabricated, full of flavour, when the karaoke sets in and a reticent gentleman takes to song. He knows the lyrics, they are burned into to the screen, but he sings to the tune of something else.
Strawberry blonde, pruning branches, disappearing on trains; a philosophical ode to a fading spring. Adrift in a dense crowd, a digital malaise offers to disintegrate, from listless arcades to haunts dystopian made.
It’s a clash of ideas, written from the same hand. Years apart, but never distant, for one so old to find the steed he once rode. No hotel room offers convenience, save for the windowed bar. A phantom in black tie, preyed on from afar.
There’s nothing, that’s how it goes. The denial preserves the stone already thrown. Tell me something, in earnest, is it me or is it you? When I disembark in a taxi, does my disappearance ring true?
I was stuck in the lift, we were both going up. Exchanged a glance and a smile, while the going was tough.