Shinjuku in the Winter of ’17

My tendency to turn coincidence into fate or to set the stage for romance with trivial things is proof that I have a needless fondness for indulging in moods. And so, here I am, drinking meaninglessly in a meaningless bar, surrounded by meaningless neon signs.As always, romance plays as much of a role in courage as solitude does. I have long accepted that I am destined to drink alone, bound by the things I cannot change. I have never once tried to change that fate. Then, I meet the eyes of the man sitting across from me. His ashtray is filled with half-smoked cigarettes, and he exhales endlessly, as if sighing out his existence. Outside, snow is falling. Between the things that fall inevitably and those that must fall inevitably, I realize—I am, once again, alone.