











30oct25












30oct25

Coming back to Tokyo felt like returning to a dream I’d already woken from. But something’s shifted—subtly, invisibly. Maybe the city hasn’t changed. Maybe I have.
They say you can’t go home again, but I didn’t believe it until now. You can retrace every step, find the same ramen shop, walk the same narrow streets—but the feeling doesn’t return. What once shimmered with newness now feels distant.

It’s not sadness exactly—it’s something quieter. A recognition that time moves in only one direction, and the places that once felt like home remain suspended in a version of the past that no longer exists.
So I walk the same streets again, but this time as a ghost—half here, half somewhere that can’t be reached anymore. Tokyo is still beautiful. It’s just not mine in the same way it was before.



November 2025



29oct25



29oct25

30october2025


29oct25

Prowling the streets in ‘early morning Shibuya.’ Holiday from work so I caught my regular 5:56am train bypassing my transfer and came straight here. Trying to piece together the remnants of 22 years of off and on living and visiting here. So many places have changed since Covid, apparently, so my old landmarks are basically lost.

I ‘think’ I walked past a Family Mart that we would sit out front of drinking a Chu-Hi or whatever, before heading out to the clubs for the night. I ‘think’ I walked up the street where Craig Taylor, Jeannette, Jarren, and I saw DoGviLLe, the Lars Von Trier, Nicole Kidman classic.
Sitting at a Komeda’s Coffee ☕️ now, rethinking my approach to these streets today. Some people are still stumbling out of clubs. I remember those mornings!


29oct25




27october2025

There’s a tunnel I walk through sometimes in Tokyo, a stretch of concrete under the train tracks. The walls are covered in layers of graffiti—silver throw-ups, messy tags, bursts of color.

Salarymen walk through it without looking up, briefcases in hand. Nobody really stops here. But the walls show something the clean streets above ground don’t show you.

Tokyo is so often perfect—quiet trains, no litter, iconic vending machines that never fail. But down here, under the bridge, it’s imperfect. Human. And I love that.

I believe that what makes a city real isn’t what it tries to present—it’s…this.


24oct25



17oct25