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Japan, don't make me fall in love again.
You know I have a soft stomach.
I am not the same man that you remember. I've been scorched by light. The light of the sun, the light of knowledge, of love reflecting from the ice.
Today you were good to me. You know I have a weakness for compassion.
A cop in the police station saw me fumble with my phone and insisted on directing me to the nearest Ramen restaurant. A man in the Ramen restaurant insisted on buying me a noodle refill. A gesture for a foreign student friend, he said. Again the hair on my arm became an attraction. I still find it hard to understand how is it that you shun hand shaking, but have no inhibitions for feeling someone's arm-hair without asking.