Prologue: The Regular Man 正男 (Masao)

Somehow three years hadn't been enough to forget his simmering existence. 

I came across the news just in time for the last escaping bubbles of his visceral face to pop. And everything in the pub went black, and the noises turned white- like the dark bangs that fanned his milky face. I remember scampering from the barstool, dodging the groping hands of my prospective one-night-stand and gushing through the gay crowd like gurgled words out of a choking throat. It felt like a never-ending run to the exit.

Finally, when I was out of the stuffy night club, I reread the news article- no matter how much I'd denied to myself, I was still following every sunrise of Japan, despite having left the country behind two years ago to come to the States. 

There had been a fire. The whole studio had risen up in flames to declare its presence to the prefecture as if the burning passion of the artists who toiled in the building night and day hadn't been enough. My tipsy eyes darted to and fro like the likes of an anime character as I squeezed the phone tighter while catching my breath. 

Despite having pledged not to return back to the country that had resulted in painful goodbyes, the news of the fire was the final tug of the magnet which pulled the iron of my blood to the east. To the man who had helped me out of a marsh of self-doubt, hatred and apathy so many times. The man who had made me thaw with emotions long before he knew about my existence. Perhaps, one of the most regular of men, whom I'd never find another of. 

And so, the run till outside the bar continued until my feet landed back in Japan.