I gave her my life, because I couldn’t think of anyone or anything better to give it to.

I always was a little a short-sighted, living only for the next test, living only on the next paycheck, a whole life’s behaviour dictated by the morning weather forecast.

But she had shone brighter than the sun, bought me everything my meagre wage could never afford, and answered all the questions I failed.

I’d never really had any beliefs. If you’d asked me about love, I’d recite some lyrical nonsense that had come from some English crooner a half-century before. I was genuine only so far as I was a replica of a replica.

Some people would call this living. Some people are idiots.


He’s six-foot-one and his clothes always fit.
He sees you looking but he don’t give a shit.
He’s Imperial… Slim.
He’s Imperial… Slim.

He’s got more bitches than your fingers can count
but it’s not a figure that he cares to flount.
He’s Imperial… Slim.
Yes, he’s Imperial… Slim.

He’ll pass you in line without a second thought.
The things you wanna own? He’s already bought.
Those cries in the night are the ones he’s caused.
Not a blemish,
not a scar,
not the tiniest flaw.

He’s Imperial Slim.


And it’s on Spring afternoons like these
when the sun is shining with exactly the right amount of gold
and the Radiohead is playing just so
that I realize I didn’t miss Tokyo at all,
just her
and the billowing cool of her indifferent beauty.