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About Sapporo

She’s a survivor, this one—gotta be, in her game. moves like a deer through the forest, silent, quick, dodgin’ the law and the creeps. Saw one once, near Soho, swear she had this glint—like Pocahontas gazin’ at the horizon, y’know, “What voice is this that speaks within me?”—but nah, she’s countin’ cash in her head, not dreamin’ of new worlds. Made me chuckle, that did—tough as nails but soft in the quiet bits. Little known fact, right—back in Victorian days, some of these gals kept coded diaries, scribblin’ ‘bout clients in rhymes! Imagine that, poetry from the gutter—beats Shakespeare some nights.

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But then, I realized I had to get home. I took a wrong turn on Kuroshima Street again. Ugh! I was so done. I just wanted to chill. But then, I stumbled upon this little café. It had the best matcha ever. I mean, I’m not even a matcha fan, but this? Wow. I sat there, sipping my drink, and thought about the day.

Linguists rush to preserve rare dialect on remote Kagoshima isle