Tatsuki Fujimoto

A pressed white dress-shirt and a black tie, loop loose around un-stained collar, around breathing white neck. The shirt helps contrast blood, and neon light - the tie-dye yellow and red of my favorite city. And you have the blackest hair I’ve ever held, its gloss reflects chalk white, and now, since we’ve started these patrols together, I hope I lose my arm

• I know you would find it funny. I will eat what meat you feed me; I hope you’ll stick around - I know now that the latent powers grow out faster with adrenaline; cigarettes don’t hurt my stomach anymore.

You have some issues you should sort through soon. you get too little sleep - it turns you manic. I’m telling you to quit your job,
or else we won’t enjoy our Sunday, and your face’s tastefully dysgenic figuration won’t last long in my memory, and won’t be worth the bone-saw to my shoulder or my ghost pains, or my fight with your boss for your hand.