Marcel Winatschek

The Depressed Girl:

Chiaki’s dead, comes a quiet voice from the other side of the table. Ichika’s eyes search for sympathy, but Kana doesn’t understand a word. Chiaki… which Chiaki? Chiaki Sano? Ichika replies. We were in the same class. The curly-haired one? Ichika nods. What happened? I don’t know. She didn’t leave a note. She killed herself? Yes. With a door handle, at her parents’ house. She used her Mac charger. Was the cable long enough? No idea.

The moment I first spotted the film’s poster in Shimokitazawa, I knew I had to see Desert of Namibia. Kana’s profoundly empty gaze—I wasn’t entirely sure whether it reminded me more of myself or of certain people from my earlier life. A lack of empathy seemed to have been widespread both in my hometown and in my heart. And even today I catch myself wearing that same empty, expressionless look of complete indifference on my face—even when I’m among people I actually like.

Desert of Namibia premiered in the Directors’ Fortnight section of the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Fédération Internationale de la Presse Cinématographique Prize and made Yoko Yamanaka, at 27, the youngest woman ever to receive the honor. It’s a prize that feels both apt and slightly beside the point. Desert of Namibia is precisely the kind of film that prizes were invented for: formally daring, emotionally unruly, and stubbornly, almost defiantly, itself.

Yumi Kawai plays Kana with an authority that immediately commands the screen. She’s 21 years old, employed at a laser hair removal salon in Tokyo, and perpetually on the edge of some unnamed outburst. She drifts between two men—Honda, a dependable real estate agent who cooks her meals and keeps the household intact with patient, almost desperate affection, and Hayashi, a free-spirited artist whose charisma masks a capacity for cruelty that mirrors her own. She doesn’t choose between them so much as move between worlds, carrying her restlessness like weather.

Yoko Yamanaka, who made her debut feature Amiko as a teenager in 2017 on a budget of roughly $2,500—a fifth of which reportedly went toward repairing a car she totaled driving to the shoot—has grown into a filmmaker of uncommon assurance. Where her debut crackled with the quick-cut energy of a YouTube vlog, Desert of Namibia holds. It lingers. It zooms, slowly and with maddening patience, onto a face that gives little away. Shot in a boxy 4:3 format by cinematographer Shin Yonekura, the film has the claustrophobic texture of a life lived in small rooms: hair removal cubicles, cramped kitchens, the narrow hallways of shared apartments.

This formal restraint is not mere affectation. It mirrors Kana’s own condition. She’s a young woman surrounded by men—professionally, romantically, medically—who cannot quite hear her, even when she’s screaming. When Honda returns from a work trip having visited a hostess bar at his boss’s insistence, their subsequent confrontation is rendered with scorching honesty: the apologies that pile up and begin to mean nothing, the moment Kana’s quiet fury curdles into something physical and irrational, the way the film refuses to adjudicate between victim and perpetrator. They’re both, somehow, both.

The film’s also, intermittently, very funny. Kana’s workplace scenes at the salon—where she and a colleague speculate freely about why an elderly woman is getting a bikini wax, or where she’s fired for informing a customer that she’s been wasting her money on cosmetic rather than medical hair removal—have the rhythm of sketch comedy, the timing of absurdist theater. A role-play argument in which Kana coaches her boyfriend on how to refuse his boss’s advances at a hostess bar gives way, without warning, into something genuinely unsettling. The tonal whiplash is intentional, a structural analogue to the instability that defines Kana’s inner life.

Midway through the film, Kana visits a therapist. The session’s one of the most acutely observed psychiatric consultations in recent cinema: the doctor’s careful probing, Kana’s sudden tangent into a hypothetical about pedophilia as a philosophical example, the awkward moment when she asks the therapist to dinner. A potential diagnosis of bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder is floated but not confirmed. Kana’s desire to understand who she is comes closest to a thesis statement in the film, delivered so quietly it could easily pass unnoticed.

The film’s final stretch tips into something stranger and more surreal: a kind of waking dream in which panda ants, campfire songs, and parallel universes intrude upon the social realism of what came before. Some viewers will find this tonal leap liberating; others will feel the ground go out from under them. Yoko Yamanaka earns neither entirely, and the film’s last act is its least controlled. But there’s something right about the incoherence. Kana, in the end, cannot be resolved into a diagnosis, a lesson, or a character arc. She simply continues, which is exactly the point.

Yumi Kawai’s performance has been compared, with some justification, to Gena Rowlands in John Cassavetes’s A Woman Under the Influence. The comparison is generous but not absurd. Like Gena Rowlands, Yumi Kawai makes suffering look like electricity. Her Kana won the Blue Ribbon Award for Best Actress in Japan and received nominations at both the Asia Pacific Screen Awards and the Asian Film Awards, and every honor is deserved. She carries the film on a performance that never condescends to her character, never asks for sympathy on her behalf, never explains her to us.

Desert of Namibia isn’t a comfortable film, and it doesn’t want to be. But it announces Yoko Yamanaka as one of the most necessary voices in contemporary cinema: a filmmaker capable of holding contradiction with the same uneasy, unflinching attention she turns on her impossible, essential heroine.

A Weekend Among Dreamers:

Video games are the only art form that can distract my self-diagnosed ADHD brain to such an extent that I don’t constantly slip into self-destructive thoughts or reach for my phone to let pseudo-social media wash over me.

My most cherished memories in life, aside from those of a sexual nature, have something to do with video games. How, as a child, I won both a Super Nintendo and a Game Boy on Austrian children’s television. How I wandered through the flea markets of the surrounding area to snag treasures big and small bearing the PlayStation logo. How I fought gods, demons, and hell-houses with a ragtag party and the last scraps of health bars, to bring well-deserved peace to the fictional world I was inhabiting at the time.

Last weekend I attended GG Bavaria in Munich. The small gaming convention in the Olympic Park can comfortably be seen as the little local sister to Cologne’s Gamescom. Here too, game developers and their fans, as well as artists, cosplayers, and obsessive Japan enthusiasts, gather year after year.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected a gaming convention to sweep me up so thoroughly. But the moment I stepped into the Small Olympic Hall, it was clear: this was no ordinary event.

GG Bavaria entered its fourth edition this year—and you could feel its confidence. The convention opened its doors as early as Friday, giving you a full long weekend to dive in. And dive in really is the right phrase: glowing screens everywhere, playable demos, colorful booths from indie studios, an Artist Alley packed with illustrators and artists, and flowing through it all a stream of people who somehow all speak the same language—the language of gaming.

What impressed me most was the density of Bavarian studios presenting their games here. You could actually talk to the developers whose game you’d just been watching someone play. That direct meeting between creators and community simply isn’t possible at large conventions like Gamescom. Games like A Webbing Journey, Medieval Frontiers, or OrbiTower—all titles I hadn’t had on my radar before, all of which surprised me in different ways.

Speaking of surprises: the Cosplay Catwalk on Sunday was a genuine highlight. Costumes at a level that made you briefly wonder how many hours of work could go into a single outfit. The energy in the room when the cosplayers take the stage is hard to put into words.

Also on Sunday, the GG Awards were presented—five prizes for outstanding indie games, covering everything from best sound to innovative game mechanics to audience favorite. The fact that Bavaria’s own Minister of Digital Affairs personally handed out one of the awards shows just how seriously the political world is now taking the games industry. And rightly so.

New to me was the Career Space—an area I nearly walked past, which turned out to be one of the most interesting at the entire convention. Universities from across Bavaria, from SAE to Macromedia to the University of Würzburg and TH Deggendorf, were represented, showcasing what students in gaming degree programs are building. Panels, Q&As, workshops—anyone seriously looking to break into the industry will find real guidance here.

Musically, the weekend kicked off with a concert by Munich band Oblivion, who blend gaming soundtracks with Balkan grooves and Nordic sounds. It sounds like a strange combination—but it works surprisingly well.

Truth be told, I was mainly at GG Bavaria to visit friends who were presenting their games there, above all Incredibug by my 3D mentor Michi, and Bardcore by Flo, Tomas, Svea, and Ludwig, which I had already playtested several times and been able to share my thoughts on—including, for example, that there weren’t nearly enough waifus on display.

In the first physics-based platformer with Metroidvania elements, you control an adorable pill bug, unite your fellow crustaceans, and rise up against a menacing smart home system. In the second, you play as a colorful troupe of bards defending your village from quirky skeletons and a black dragon.

And since I’m a total sucker for all things Japan, I of course couldn’t pass up the action-packed presentation by the local 北辰一刀流兵法 samurai school, soaking in the small and grand stories of East Asian warriors.

When the hustle and bustle of the convention got to be too much, I made myself comfortable by the lake in the sunny Olympic Park, or fled with others to the nearby supermarket to stock up on caffeinated refreshments.

In the evenings, visitors were ushered out of the hall and the party began. While we stuffed ourselves with rolls, cookies, and free drinks and created characters punished by nature on various screens, a DJ dressed in red shook the hall with nostalgic anime openings and the occasional Nintendo soundtrack. The theme songs from One Piece, Case Closed, and Neon Genesis Evangelion are bangers you otherwise only get to hear at weeb events.

The journey home was in Ludwig’s packed car, which somehow fit not just me but also Tomas, Jan, and Johanna. On the way to the next motorway service station, we chatted about university, water damage, and the pitfalls of village life. No convention is a good convention if you don’t at some point flee from it by car, right Michi?

This year’s GG Bavaria gave me the idea of maybe dropping in on Gamescom again after all. It’s been a few years since I attended—back then, thanks to , I even had the privileges of a press badge and everything that came with it: access to the press area, invitations to industry parties, and not having to suffocate among the general visitors.

On the other hand, I’ve also been wanting to finally make it to Nippon Connection in Frankfurt to catch the latest films from the Land of the Rising Sun. And I’m not sure my often hard-to-predict energy levels could handle two events of this kind back to back.

All in all, GG Bavaria 2026 felt like an event that has caught exactly the right moment. The Bavarian gaming scene is growing, and this convention is growing with it. If you haven’t been yet—I’d secure tickets early next year. Good Game, Bavaria.

The Man Between Masks:

Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives have taken different directions.

He wonders whether they are happier. Or whether they navigate their daily lives just as lonely as he does. But his life changes rapidly when he is unexpectedly drawn into the depths of Japanese interpersonal relationships.

You have a wedding invitation, but no one to call your plus-one. Your new boyfriend wants to meet your mother, but you’re afraid she’ll embarrass you. You’re tired of going to the cinema alone every weekend, but none of your friends are film lovers.

Who hasn’t wished for an ideal companion in situations like these—someone to fill our emotional voids in uncomfortable social situations? This longing for connection is at the heart of Rental Family.

Philipp is a middle-aged American actor who moved to Tokyo after landing a big gig in a toothpaste commercial. Seven years later, the acting work has dried up, and when his agent sends him on short notice to a job requiring a black suit, he jumps at the opportunity.

When he arrives at the location, however, he discovers he has been paid to appear as a mourner at a funeral—for a man who is still alive and lying in an open casket. As the service concludes, Phillip learns that the man had hired a company to stage his own funeral so he could listen to moving eulogies about himself.

After overcoming his initial shock that such a service even exists, Phillip agrees to meet the owner of the company Rental Family and shortly afterward begins working for the firm. What follows is a journey between hopeful wishful thinking and a reality that keeps pulling him back down to earth. The deeper Philipp immerses himself in the artificial worlds of his clients, the more genuine bonds emerge—blurring the boundaries between performance and reality.

The longing for human connection represents a central social phenomenon of contemporary society, one that has found a particularly distinctive commercial expression in Japan: the so-called rental family industry. This is a well-documented phenomenon with its origins in the 1980s, which has attracted increased academic and cultural attention.

There are currently an estimated 300 such companies in Japan, whose employees—trained actors—take on the roles of parents, friends, spouses, or other close figures for an hourly fee. Particularly in urban centers like Tokyo, but also in rural areas, social isolation can be a defining experience of everyday life.

Notably, the demand for these services is primarily driven by a need for human closeness: despite the commercial nature of the interaction, clients frequently report that genuine friendships develop within the two to three hours spent together. The growth of this industry can be attributed to structural factors such as increasing loneliness, social isolation, and the persistent stigma surrounding mental health care in Japan.

Compared to Western countries—particularly the United States—mental health services in Japan are significantly less accessible, especially in terms of telehealth options. As a result, many people turn to informal support services: while rental family agency employees are not licensed professionals, they offer a form of low-threshold emotional support through empathetic listening and personal perspective.

It’s almost unsettling how much Philipp reminded me of my loneliest moments in Japan. When no one had time for me. When I was too tired to leave the house. When I was no longer sure why I was sitting here at all—alone at the other end of the world—jealously watching people become one with the city around them.

But Philipp also embodied a possible future version of myself, and my fear of becoming someone who has realized their dream of moving to Japan and building a better life there—only to end up completely alone. And how every day spent in this illusory world, corroded by false hopes and shattered dreams, costs him whatever happiness might exist somewhere else.

As Phillip begins working in the rental family industry, he quickly realizes that the relationships he enters into with his clients are far more than mere business transactions. As he becomes aware of the emotional impact of his work, he is forced to grapple with the ethical implications of his new career path.

His moral compass is put to the ultimate test when he meets Mia. Mia is being raised by a single mother who wants her daughter to attend a prestigious private school. The school’s admissions committee initially rejects the girl, however, because she does not come from a two-parent household.

Mia’s mother turns to the rental family agency to hire an actor—Phillip—to play her father in meetings with the school. But the assignment demands more from Phillip than simply appearing before the admissions committee. He must build a genuine relationship with Mia so that their connection appears authentic. And so Mia, who grew up thinking she was abandoned by her father, suddenly believes she has one—and quickly begins to form a deep attachment to him.

At its core, Rental Family is an odyssey in search of ourselves: a question of what we want, who we are, and what makes us happy—and a constant series of decisions about whether to follow the rules or break them in order to bring happiness to ourselves and others. For every new path taken offers both opportunities and risks in equal measure.

Brendan Fraser as Phillip can safely be called the perfect casting choice. His deeply emotional presence carries the film and moved me to spontaneous tears more than once. And yet, even by the end, it remains unclear who Phillip really is. He seems to perpetually stumble from one role to the next—like a man between masks.

Rental Family is a film that could only be set in Japan, serving as a mirror of that specific society. Tokyo as a stage-like diorama is a backdrop for people who hunger for fulfillment in the depths of this concrete jungle and take curious detours along the way. And not infrequently, even the providers of these wishful worlds embark on that same journey themselves.

Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings used to consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives had taken different directions. Because now he is one of those people who has dared to take an unfamiliar path—and will hopefully be rewarded for it.

My Only Constant:

The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? The answers to these self-centered existential crises are not easy to find, because they shift depending on my mood and emotional state, and reveal themselves as traps whenever I finally manage to corner them and practically beg for mercy—and the enlightenment that should follow.

Then I try to remember why I started blogging in the first place. Did I want to feel important? To connect with others? To prove to the world out there that I existed? Did I simply lack alternatives, given that shortly after the turn of the millennium there was no YouTube, no podcasts, and the written word was one of the few means of carrying my thoughts, feelings, and opinions outward?

My love of blogging probably stems from the fact that I enjoyed reading books as a child, and through that developed a fairly extensive vocabulary that I wanted to express, garnished with my own stories. This ambition was barely noticed or appreciated by my teachers, but it was by people in my closer circle, who wanted to know whether—and what—I was writing about them.

My love of publishing texts on the internet is probably rooted in the knowledge, or at least the desperate hope, that people I knew were reading them. Friends I had hurt. Acquaintances I hadn’t seen in a while. Girls I was in love with. Through my blog, I could transform my longing for them into frequently very embarrassing texts, without having to address those feelings to them directly.

Perhaps this approach was somewhat cowardly, and maybe my words—saturated with heartache and world-weariness—never reached the eyes they were actually intended for. But at the very least, I had created a creative island for myself where I could do as I pleased. And that was not only incredibly liberating, but gradually became an important part of my life.

At many points along my path, I could only begin to pursue happiness again after pulling various spiraling thoughts from my head and hurling them onto digital paper, only to then blast them out into the great wide world. The nameless feeling that came with clicking Publish was somewhere between catharsis and orgasm. The more personal, honest, and emotionally naked my confessions were, the greater the relief. I’m only happy when my words change the world—at least the one I call home.

Over the decades, my blog has evolved into a diary whose intimate entries lie buried under a mountain of attention-hungry, now entirely worthless drivel. Sometimes I come across one of them and feel a little sad that it’s no longer part of this great wide world, but seems to have been erased. Perhaps I can undo that.

The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? I still haven’t found the answers to these self-centered existential crises, but at least I’ve begun to track them down through countless psychologically questionable acts of self-reflection—or so I hope.

It’s difficult for me to find the line between introverted solitude and extroverted self-expression. One extreme would be a diary locked in a vault, into which I write all my thoughts in secret symbols; the other, an OnlyFans account in which I expose not only myself but also my sensitive data—passwords and all. Middle grounds are hard for me to walk.

In order to design something and actually finish it to the point where I can fill it with content, I first have to strip a project’s purpose down to its essentials. And at this task—which sounds so simple yet is incredibly complicated—I have obsessively worn myself to the bone. After all, this publication is meant to represent me and my thoughts. And to achieve that, I first had to figure out who I actually was—or at least, who I no longer was.

I now want to treat this dispatch as a personal notebook, into which I can enter texts about art, music, books, technology, film, fashion, travel, games, food, and my life in general. What matters to me is that everything I write must relate to me—my thoughts, my experiences, my feelings, my dreams, my fears, my hopes, and my opinions—because otherwise it’s worthless.

Going forward, I will focus primarily on the written word. I have removed the images that used to decorate every single post, because I realized that I sometimes never published certain texts for the simple reason that, even after hours or sometimes days of searching, I couldn’t find a suitable illustration. If I want to add a photo or video to a post from now on, I will simply link to it directly within the text—life can be that simple.

As a fitting typeface, I have chosen Libre Caslon Condensed by Pablo Impallari, because it works well even on small mobile screens. In the past I always found a sans-serif counterpart for headings, timestamps, and supplementary information—but even that felt like too much in this design. Instead, I’m largely limiting myself to the various weights of my new favorite typeface. Japanese characters are the one exception, represented by two variants from the Zen family by artist Yoshimichi Ohira.

I hope that this blog—and everything I have cut, burned, and destroyed for it—will help me figure out who I am, what I want, and what any of this is for. Perhaps I need to become (again) conscious of the fact that this journal is not only the center and pivot point, but also the only constant in my otherwise chaotic life. But this can only work if it becomes a part of that life once more.

20 Nights in Tokyo:

I’ve decided to use Japan as the thematic foundation for my upcoming bachelor’s thesis in design. How exactly I want to approach this is still somewhat uncertain. At first, I intended to shoot a documentary about the colorful underground cultures in the Land of the Rising Sun. Cultures permeated by depression, anxiety about the future, and a kind of resentment toward society by their followers.

I wanted to cover everything from eccentric horror manga and underage idol groups to rape porn that only narrowly falls under artistic freedom, and speak with pop-culture experts about whether Japan’s aging population might eventually cause these scenes to die out. However, this plan ultimately struck me as somewhat too overambitious. I should probably be a little more modest.

Then I remembered that my professors at the Japanese university where I studied had always encouraged me to use my projects to explore stories drawn from my own life, my own feelings, and my own experiences. Because it gives an intention much more soul.

At the very least, I know that I want to address Japan and my time here in my bachelor’s thesis. And I want to take this chance to connect the project with my love for Tokyo. For when I close my eyes and think of Japan, I see not only the brightly lit streets of Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Akihabara, plastered with neon signs, but also the countless secrets hidden within them—secrets waiting to be uncovered and told.

Since I now at least understand that I want to portray Tokyo at night in film for my thesis, I will spend the next three weeks in Japan’s capital, preferably venturing out after sunset to wander through temples, parks, and towering buildings in search of my own story that I want to bring to life by film.

For this purpose, I have booked a bed at a quite cheap capsule hotel in the Sumida district and will dive into the always loudly pulsing metropolis from there. What exactly will come out of all this, I still don’t know. But sometimes I simply have to throw all my previous plans overboard and take a courageous leap of faith in order to transform adventures into stories.

Goodbye Kumamoto:

My time here in Kumamoto is now coming to an end. For a full year I have been an exchange student at the Faculty of Design of Japan’s Sojo University, exploring new ideas in both artistic and technical fields.

Day after day, I wandered the two campuses that rise above the city, learning about typography, painting, and graphic design in lecture halls, tinkering with Arduinos and Raspberry Pis in the computer club, and studying Japanese in the library with friends.

I’ve met so many wonderful people, traveled across half the country with them, and through them gained deep insights into a different kind of society—glimpses that remain forever closed to most travelers. It’s hard to express how grateful I am to have lived through these colorful adventures.

I came to see my year in Kumamoto as my own little Persona game, determined to experience every side of this city. That’s why I dragged my friends to every restaurant, café, izakaya, karaoke bar, shop, park, cinema, and exhibition Kumamoto had to offer.

I wanted to taste every dish, see every movie, and join every festival. I even felt a quiet pride as I rushed past tourists to complete my own personal missions at city hall, the post office, or the housing agency—tasks usually reserved for locals.

I walked the narrow path along the river through all four seasons, from the first cherry blossom to the final snowflake. And on every single day, there was something new waiting to be discovered.

Of course, I’m sad to leave, to part from so many people with whom I shared my days, my worries, my hopes, and dreams. Yet I’m deeply grateful for every moment I was allowed to spend here. Kumamoto and its people will always hold a quiet place in my heart.

This year at the far end of the world has shown me that I can find my way anywhere, make friends everywhere, and keep gathering new goals, ideas, and insights. I’ve grown in Kumamoto, and that growth has prepared me for whatever adventures may come next.

Wherever life takes me, I’ll carry this place within me. Farewell, Kumamoto—and perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again. At least, I hope so.

One Year in Japan:

For exactly one year now I have been living in Japan. I have a Japanese phone number, a Japanese bank account, a Japanese social security number. As a student at the art faculty of a Japanese university, I have met many local creatives as well as wonderful people from all over the world who, like me, are trying to find their place in this demanding society.

When I’m not sitting in lecture halls, studios, and cafeterias having my broken Japanese put to the test, my life plays out by day between cinemas, galleries, and museums, and by night between izakaya, karaoke bars, and supermarkets that stay open twenty-four hours a day, on nearly every corner of the city, bright and humming.

When I look back on this year, I see myself walking with friends along the river lined with freshly blossoming cherry trees, heading to the next spring festival. It’s the same river that led us in summer to the fireworks, in autumn to the castle, and in winter to the Christmas market, and where on quiet days white egrets basked beside turtles looking bored.

In the park the frogs croaked, in the brook, patterned koi raced each other, between the laundromat and the fast-food place I told the girl with the roguish smile and the short, thick, jet-black hair that I liked her. 好きだよ! still echoes through the cold night, before the brightly lit temple on the hill called us. 付き合ってください!

Even after this year, Japanese society remains a book with seven seals to me. Somewhere between well-meant politeness and militant rule-conformity, people operate day in, day out with the same mixture of a desire for individuality and a fear of otherness.

The Japanese are a close-knit and perfectly synchronized collective that, up to a certain point, tolerates outside influences with interested curiosity and at the same time rejects everything that isn’t through and through Japanese.

This cultural instinct for self-preservation hasn’t diminished my love for Japan in the least, for at every moment here I have felt welcome. And I can hardly wait to see what adventures still await me in this fascinating country in the months and years ahead.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

On a warm summer evening, when the cicadas were diligently chirping away and the moon was slowly pushing itself onto the stage of the sky, a friend and I were on our way home from an exhibition when, not far off, we first heard music and shortly after cheerful laughter. Because we were curious and still had a bit of energy left, we decided to see what was going on there.

So we picked our way through the neighborhood’s ever-narrowing streets and walked past streams, houses, and playgrounds until, a short time later, we stood at the edge of a small park where a neighborhood festival was underway. And it took less than a minute before friendly, perhaps slightly tipsy, people invited us to join the little festivity.

So we made ourselves comfortable on the blue tarp spread out in the middle of the park and looked around. In front of us a thrown-together band was playing familiar Japanese songs, and all around small stalls had been set up selling cool drinks and fried delicacies.

Around us sat talkative families, and children chased dogs, cats, and each other, or danced acrobatically and interestingly to the guitar tones of the cheerful musical artists.

We watched the summer spectacle unfolding before us with interest, and my companion confessed to me that she hadn’t known about this festival at all—despite the fact that she had already lived in this neighborhood for several years.

I personally was glad to be allowed to be part of this small gathering. After all, I don’t stumble into a little Japanese summer festival every day.

And as much as I love darting over the crossing in Shibuya, admiring Sensoji in Asakusa, and indulging in the latest nerd trends in Akihabara, my heart truly opens only when I discover Japan from intimate sides that remain hidden to most outsiders. Because they aren’t made for them, because they aren’t advertised, because they happen off all the beaten paths.

And so we stayed until the end, until the band had given its last turn onstage. And as people said their farewells, we too set off home, warmed by the sense of having experienced something small we will draw on for a long time.

The Samurai’s Grave:

We arrived at the foot of Mount Tatsuda, the site of the Hosokawa family temple, Taishoji. Today the grounds belong to Tatsuda Nature Park, green, wide, and quiet.

Among bamboo and cedars stand four mausoleums: for Hosokawa Fujitaka, first lord of the Kumamoto domain, his wife, his son Hosokawa Tadaoki, the second lord, and Tadaoki’s wife, Hosokawa Gracia.

History you can touch. The teahouse Ko-sho-ken moved me most. Restored from Tadaoki’s drawings, it recalls a man who was a warrior and a tea master.

At the entrance sits a hand-washing stone he loved. In Kyoto, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and tea master Sen no Rikyu drew water from it. Later the Hosokawa lords carried a basin on sankin-kotai journeys to Edo to hold tea ceremonies—a traveling vessel.

And then there is the shadow of Miyamoto Musashi. One of his supposed graves is said to be here. In all, five places in Japan claim to be Musashi’s final resting place—three of them in Kumamoto, where he spent his last years and died in 1645.

Another grave lies in Musashizuka Park on the old Ozu road, the former National Route 57, among cedars. Legend says Musashi was buried there in armor with his sword, following his wish to protect the Hosokawa from behind as they passed.

The park holds a stone inscribed Stone Pagoda of the Sword Master Musashi and a bronze statue. The third grave, Nishi-Musashizuka, is in the Shimasaki district. Which is the real one? No one knows to this day.

Since 1955 the area has belonged to the city of Kumamoto as a loan from the Hosokawa family and has been called Tatsuda Nature Park. For people here it is simply a lovely place to breathe: walking paths, shade, birds, benches, a hush in the trees.

Officially, together with the Myogeji temple precinct in Kitaoka Nature Park, the site is designated a National Historic Site, because the Hosokawa family graveyard lies here.

If you like history but not glass cases, the Taishoji temple grounds offer a quiet, dignified spot. Tea, samurai, and stories—and yet it is only a park where children laugh, strollers roll by, and the air smells of resin after sun, and crows wheel overhead. That, to me, is the Kumamoto I love.

Embracing the Escapism:

Sometimes I wished I could muster the courage to leave everything behind, lock myself away forever in an apartment, and devote the rest of my life to a single online role-playing game.

In the midst of an enchanted fantasy world full of wonders, dreams and secrets I would transform from a peasant boy into a heroic warrior, find unimaginable treasures and fight monsters, and band together with other outcasts bored with real life to form a sworn adventuring party.

My days would be governed by quests, rituals, and leveling, by the pulse of raids, and the slow comfort of companionship the real world denied me. My existence would turn into a digital meaningfulness whose end would arrive only when the servers were switched off.

Moriko Morioka, thirty years old, single, and unemployed, put my dream into practice: An escape from reality. After losing her job she became a NEET, neither working nor studying, and seeking refuge she drifted into the World Wide Web. There she immersed herself in online games and reinvented her life as a young man named Hayashi.

As a newcomer she nearly dies in the game but is rescued just in time by a girl called Lily. Through Lily she finds allies she can trust and begins a life online that finally feels fulfilling.

Meanwhile, in the real world, she meets a handsome businessman who reminds her of someone she recently encountered. Will that encounter influence the life she has built in the game, and what will become of Moriko’s fulfilled MMORPG life?

Recovery of an MMO Junkie by Rin Kokuyo is one of my comfort anime, even though I am not much for romances and the director involved later turned out to be a disgrace.

I still love anime about people living inside online role-playing games like World of Warcraft, Guild Wars 2, or Final Fantasy XIV. Whether it is Sword Art Online, Shangri-La Frontier, or Bofuri: I Don’t Want to Get Hurt, so I’ll Max Out My Defense, I enjoy watching others enact my secret dream: finding not only the time of their lives but a kind of meaning in an otherwise hollow existence.

And perhaps one day I, too, will summon the nerve, like Moriko, to renounce the drab, gray, utterly magic-less reality and finally surrender forever, without regret, to the warm, connected wonder of a digital world.

Happiness Between Two Buns:

Japan is a country full of treats. Those who want to fill a hungry stomach efficiently and cheaply can find sushi, tempura, and ramen on every corner, in different price ranges, in hidden restaurants or crowded supermarkets. But Japan would not be Japan if it hadn’t absorbed other culinary cultures and made them its own.

Cities brim not only with steaming noodle shops and futuristic chains where raw fish on rice travels past on conveyor belts, but also offer delights from Spanish and Italian kitchens or, for those who prefer hearty, fatty, generous portions, the American culinary world.

You encounter these options everywhere, from tiny stalls and family-run izakayas to high-end restaurants and bustling food halls in the most unexpected neighborhoods.

Although I love Japanese food in all its health-promoting variety, I sometimes have to descend into Western-influenced fast-food depths to keep from losing my mind. After all, nothing soothes a stressed head like calorie-drenched soul food.

Japan tempts hearts that long for an early death by cheeseburgers, French fries and sugary cold drinks not only with imported names such as McDonald’s, Burger King, and TGI Friday’s, but also with homegrown chains founded in the Land of the Rising Sun.

From MOS Burger to Dom Dom and on to Zetteria, the choices range wide: sandwiches piled thick with meat, cheese, and vegetables, fried platters, and combos that seem to dare you to resist. They are available at train stations, convenience locations and late-night outlets across the country.

My personal go-to franchise, frequented with friends, is Freshness Burger, known for its delicious fat bombs. Its first branch opened in Shibuya in the early 1980s. The official slogan, Burger cafe where adults can relax that proposes a high-quality eating habit, is as curiously phrased as the similarly English-sounding slogans of other competitors.

But in my experience Freshness Burger not only serves the most generously topped and juiciest sandwiches, it also often offers surprising specials that I am only too happy to devour.

And, what is almost more important: The fries taste, unlike those from the better-known rivals, as if they were more than a sadly looking side dish. Gigi Hadid once famously said: Eat clean to stay fit, have a burger to stay sane. And she was right.

For the Alliance:

My journey begins in the Northshire Valley, enclosed by high mountains, somewhere in the thickly wooded Elwynn Forest. Before me stands not only the abbey of the local brotherhood but also an adventure that will take me into frozen deserts, bubbling volcanoes, and creepy ghost towns.

When I meet my friends, masquerading as knights, thieves, and wizards, behind the towering gates of the royal fortress Stormwind, and outfit myself there with keen blades, shining shields, and magical potions, I can hardly rein in my anticipation.

The scent of pine and old stone, the flutter of banners, and the clanking of armor all heighten the thrill. One thing is certain: Whatever challenges await in this digital wonderland, we will endure and overcome them together.

World of Warcraft is probably the largest and thus best-known online role-playing game, where paying participants slip into the roles of elves, dwarves, gnomes, orcs, trolls, and even talking pandabears on the fantastic planet of Azeroth.

They explore mysterious continents, live through adventures and complete quests, forge friendships, build alliances, and clash with enemies for power and glory. Players create characters, shape their skills, take on professions, tackle dungeons, trade, and socialize.

When the heroes are not busy fishing, collecting pets, or idly bouncing around auction houses, they immerse themselves in an epic saga of love, hatred, and broken dreams in which Alliance and Horde face each other bloodily and vie for the favor of gods and devils—by any means imaginable.

When I installed World of Warcraft on my newly bought Mac Mini in the mid-2000s, I played straight through until exhaustion set in at dawn. The months that followed were an experience that can never be repeated. Everything felt new, thrilling, and magical.

People around the globe logged into World of Warcraft to swap dreary everyday life for a generic but interactive Lord of the Rings copy. Some players became completely lost in it, even to this day, although twenty years on the initial fascination has largely faded.

I would give anything to wake once more in the Northshire Valley, ringed by high mountains, and set off with my friends to rediscover Azeroth and its fantastic tales, as if seeing it anew. But times change.

My Summer in Japan:

Summer here in Japan is slowly drawing to a close, though no one has informed the sun. It remains so hot and muggy that every step outdoors becomes a sweaty ordeal, at least when I dare to leave the house in broad daylight.

Even so, over these past months I’ve tried to see, experience, and take in as much as I can. After all, every minute in this country, in this adventure, is precious.

Sooner or later I’ll be back on a plane, heading home, and any moment I haven’t used to the fullest will feel wasted. I want to keep that potential regret small, so I push myself to go, to look, to listen, to be present, and to savor what this place offers.

I grabbed dear friends and headed with them into every shop and restaurant that looked even vaguely inviting. We drove into the mountains and out to the water. We wandered through cities, museums, and temples. I met locals and people from every corner of the globe whose stories, dreams, or simply their way of not taking life too seriously touched and inspired me.

Japan is a riotously colorful grab-bag, a lucky packet worth opening and exploring. Whether in nerdy manga shops, smoky izakaya, or mist-shrouded samurai graveyards, I’m grateful for each memory I’m allowed to carry along on the rest of my journey, a pocketful of moments that clink like coins and remind me why I came so far in the first place.

And while the sun spent the days of this summer beating down on us without mercy, as if to taunt us and prove itself the ruler of the sky, Kumamoto at night turned into an idyllic dreamscape, a black-blue paradise full of chirring cicadas, croaking frogs, and purring cats.

Fireworks stitched light across the dark vault, and in meadows ringed by small houses people sat and grilled, drank, and sang. Neighbors waved, wind bells tinkled, and smoke drifted upward like a prayer.

Now summer here in Japan is coming to an end—and with it my year in this city at the far edge of the world, a place that welcomed me, challenged me, and, in ways I never expected, changed who I am.

My Favorite Cinema:

The other night over dinner, a friend asked why I love lesser-known films so much. Her favorites are American action blockbusters like Die Hard, The Transporter, and the high-octane The Fast and the Furious series with Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, and Michelle Rodriguez, while my patchy watchlist includes titles like Nightcrawler, Melancholia, and My Small Land.

My quick, perhaps rash, answer was that I enjoy movies that lodge in my memory, that I might still recall years later because they moved me, fascinated me, or taught me something. Maybe it’s simply that I was in love with someone in the cast. I chase the afterglow: A scene that lingers, a line that won’t fade, a feeling that taps me on the shoulder after the credits roll.

In the shadow of the multiplexes in Kumamoto, somewhere between Toho, Aeon, and SMT, which lure crowds with hits like Jurassic World, Under Ninja, and the latest Demon Slayer, plus popcorn, tortilla chips, and syrupy cola in huge cups, stands my favorite cinema: The Denkikan.

Its dark walls, hung with obscure posters, host local gems and far-flung wonders, whose popularity sits somewhere between celery salad, cloudy sunsets, and computers running Linux as a daily driver.

How many people can say they saw Oasis, The Jazz Loft, or All We Imagine as Light in a theater? A haven where the projector hums, the aisles creak, and I catch whispers of other lives. A schedule like a treasure map inviting me to trust the curators and go somewhere unexpected.

With a freshly brewed coffee on one side and a companion on the other, I let the Denkikan carry me into unfamiliar worlds. On these long screenings, there are often no more than five fellow travelers, scattered among the seats.

Of course, I value the blockbuster experience too. Surrendering to wild action with sweet-and-salty snacks is as valid as falling for small secrets. Yet there is special magic when, in my little favorite theater, I watch Japanese indie films like Rainy Blue, At the Bench, and Linda Linda Linda.

Those are the films that make my heart beat faster, the ones that hum behind ordinary days, turn the walk home into an epilogue, and remind me that quiet stories can claim space in a life.

Arrow in the Knee:

Staggering from the cave on my last reserves, I let my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight as a vast, mountain-studded snowscape unfurls before me. In towns clasped by timber and stone, merchants, thieves, and kings ply their trades. Dragons, werewolves, and vampires wake. Bright hoards and darker magics hide from the gaze of a budding civil war.

I wipe fresh bear blood from my skin and set out for the next village. It is not the first time I have roamed these forests, nor will it be the last. Once more I have returned. To the valleys of Skyrim, where the wind bites like iron and distant watchtowers blink with fire as paths fork, promising danger, coin, and stories for the stubborn and brave.

Two hundred years after the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls V stands at the brink. The High King of Skyrim has been assassinated. New alliances form and stake their claim to the throne.

Yet amid this conflict, a far more perilous, ancient threat stirs to life. The dragons, whose existence is whispered in long-forgotten passages of the Elder Scrolls and deemed extinct, have returned to Tamriel.

Skyrim’s future, and that of the entire Empire, hangs in the balance as the land waits for the prophecy to unfold: the coming of the Dragonborn, a hero wielding the Power of the Voice, the Thu’um, and the only one capable of standing against the dragons—foretold in runes and shouts carved into cold stone walls.

Nothing sets my little nerd heart racing like diving into The Elder Scrolls V. Again and again. Sometimes as a kindhearted knight who rescues fair maidens, builds homes, and adopts children. Sometimes as a ruthless mage who slaughters monsters and farmers alike. And sometimes as a naked madman who, thanks to supernatural powers, can vault over castle walls, marry deities, and fight Spider-Man, with essentially one overriding goal: to hoard every cheese wheel in the realm.

The Elder Scrolls V is a vast playground full of marvelous characters and intriguing stories. Returning to the world of Skyrim is, each time, a blend of adventure and coming home, a feeling only a handful of computer games ever manage to create with enduring comfort for me.

Magazine for City Boys:

Although my chest houses the heart of a digital minimalist and light-footed traveler who thinks in bits and bytes and has gradually moved the baggage of his not-so-young life into the cloud, I have nonetheless kept a soft spot for printed media.

Whether books, magazines, or newspapers, something happens to me when I hold these riotously colorful works of art in my hands and can not only look at them but also feel them, smell them and, to a certain extent, even hear them.

I buy them sometimes fresh off the press at the kiosk or happily second-hand, always knowing that I will take their secrets into myself and then release them back into the world before someone else can fall in love with them.

One of my favorite magazines is the Japanese Popeye. It’s a monthly fashion and men’s magazine based in Tokyo, addressing clothes, sports, and everyday culture from a young male perspective.

Popeye was founded in 1976 by Yoshihisa Kinameri, who saw Japan at the time in a state of drift and wanted to encourage the country’s youth toward a healthier lifestyle.

In the meantime it has grown into one of the nation’s most influential cultural publications. The magazine is widely known for introducing American youth culture to Japanese readers.

In his book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, W. David Marx described Popeye’s debut issue as a sunny take on life in California, where youth were carving out the future for the rest of civilization.

Each issue tackles a specific theme that it introduces to its readers. Sometimes it is about trips to the small and big metropolises of the world, New York, Seoul, London, Taipei, Paris, about the freshest films, books, and fashion trends, about cool restaurants with which city boys can impress their girlfriend—if they even have one.

But most interesting to me is the Japanese gaze on the world and the selection of stories Popeye correspondents bring back to readers in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto, and also from the farthest corners of Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Kyushu.

I dig the style, the interviews, the photo features, especially the Girls in the City series. Popeye is a beautifully designed declaration of love to mindful consumption and one reason print must never die.

After the Rain:

The weather over the past few months here in Kumamoto seems to recognize only two possible settings. Either it strives to mimic the lava-laced dungeons of hell and cook us alive, or it bombards us so mercilessly with rain, gales, and typhoons that building an ark seems the logical step for ferrying ourselves, and a few stray animals, to safety.

Thanks to climate change, or rather to those who deny it, the weather has digivolved into my personal arch-enemy, and I, in turn, into one of those people who cannot help, at every opportunity these days, lamenting how awful things already are and how much worse they are likely to become—assuming, of course, there is any future left for us at all, for anyone paying attention.

The other day I came home seared through, surely nurturing one or two splendidly developing cases of skin cancer, only to realize that, precisely as I pulled the front door shut behind me and took a brief cold shower to stop the sweating, the rain began outside.

The joy at this long-overdue cool-down, and the prudent fact that I had just finished the groceries and therefore did not need to venture back out, did not last long.

What started as an exciting thunderstorm, complete with flash after flash and rolling thunder, quickly morphed into a rainstorm so merciless that one chirpy, softly whirring disaster notification after another began lighting up my phone, stacking themselves into a cheerful little tower of alarms on the glowing lock screen.

In front of my house the street turned into a long paddling pool, while I was first instructed to evacuate and later, because the bridges were overflowing, told to wait it out.

Since I live on the second floor, I watched the drama through the window and on special reports on TV. My only fear was that the power might fail or the water supply be hit, but that did not happen.

Sleep was impossible that night, because my phone chimed every few hours, sending grim alerts one after another. While I, as I learned next morning, got off lightly, others coped with flooded homes, cars, and supermarkets. Let us hope this was the worst we will have to endure in the near future.

King of the Monsters:

There are certain Japanese subcultures to which, to date, I’ve never really found an entry point. Among them are animated VTubers, masked superheroes à la Kamen Rider, and kaiju—giant monsters that, at regular intervals, stomp Tokyo flat. Well-known examples include Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah, Gamera, and of course the universally beloved Godzilla, brought to life by Ishiro Honda.

I did see Roland Emmerich’s American version in theaters in the late ’90s, yet the destructive spectacle didn’t leave much of an impression on me whatsoever. And that’s strange, because I generally adore it when the world is reduced to rubble in the media I consume. Somehow, though, this particular behemoth and his city-crushing antics never quite worked their way under my skin.

The basic idea for Godzilla came from producer Tomoyuki Tanaka. The inspiration is said to have been the incident of a Japanese fishing boat that strayed into the fallout zone of an American nuclear weapons test.

The first film, from 1954, in its original Japanese version is not only technically impressive in its effects, it is also a thoughtfully constructed work in terms of plot and drama, one that can be read as an allegory for Japan’s trauma after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or as a direct reaction to the nuclear mishap that struck the small fishing boat. Since then, and with a nod to King Kong, Godzilla has run amok and spread fear and terror—most often in Japan’s major cities.

To develop feelings for the skyscraper-tall and perhaps even misunderstood reptile, I recently watched the newest, critic-lauded installment in the film saga, Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One.

There, a kamikaze pilot tormented by survivor’s guilt seeks redemption when a giant monster he failed to kill is transformed by radiation from atomic bomb tests and lays siege to postwar Japan. It’s about honor, guilt, love, grief, friendship, responsibility—and, naturally, many demolished properties.

Unfortunately, I was as whelmed by this Godzilla outing as I once was by Roland Emmerich’s attempt to bring the creature to New York. Maybe I simply don’t fear irradiated monsters, no matter how loudly they roar. Godzilla and I, despite its cultural relevance, will probably never be friends. What a pity.

A Smoky Smell:

Summer in Japan is barbecue season. Partly that’s because it is, let’s say, bold to leave raw fish outdoors for longer than three seconds in these godless, blistering temperatures, let alone try to serve it to anyone.

And partly it’s because there is nothing more flavorful than sinking your teeth, with an ice-cold beer, or in my case tea loaded with rattling ice cubes, in freshly grilled scraps of meat, blazing-hot sausages, and the occasional almost-scorched piece of vegetable.

Ideally it happens while good conversations flow and cheerful company gathers around. In that setting even the sweatiest evenings can be endured with a little style, a lot of taste, and decent entertainment, and somehow they pass pleasantly instead of painfully. That, in short, is summer survival, Japanese-style.

A few friends and I therefore met above the rooftops of Kumamoto, at the American-leaning burger, hot-dog, and barbecue spot Jiro 26, to celebrate that day’s sunset once again for the brief coolness it brought along.

We were entrusted with cute little gas grills and got to ornament each of them with bite-sized steaks, strips of bacon, and wiener sausages. Between the meats we set down carrots, cabbage, and bell peppers. When everything was cooked through and tantalizing, we dipped the treats in punchy sauces and let them melt away on our damp tongues.

From the terrace we watched the city settle as the sky dimmed. Tongs clicked and grills hissed softly while we hovered, trading pieces, comparing doneness, raising toasts to the breeze and fading light.

Because we are, all of us, small gluttonous creatures, we raided the steaming pot of curry after the barbecue, as well as the rice cooker standing beside it with an almost innocent air.

To wrap things up we went bowling at the nearby sports center, where we taught the pins a lesson in fear. Evenings like these are my regular reminder of why I love Japan—apart from the candy-colored entertainment industry and the tropes that are so quick to see through.

After all, here I get to have a wonderful time with even more wonderful people I would never have met otherwise. They anchor me to ordinary joy and make the city feel friendly, close, and warmly lived-in—and delicious barbecue comes on top.

Want to Come Down With Me?:

Sometimes I refuse to consume media that has become too popular. Whether films, shows, or video games, once the hype train really gathers speed and it feels as if the entire planet is trying to convince me that I have to watch, listen to, or simply experience this thing because it’s the finest achievement humanity has produced in its more than 300,000-year history, I react almost reflexively with a defense mechanism that looks suspiciously like an allergy.

I tense up, dig in my heels, and avoid it on principle. Familiar examples are Squid Game, The Weeknd, and Balatro, whose emotional impact on my life falls somewhere between militant indifference and a burning, slightly irrational hatred that I can’t quite justify even to myself.

Yet I have decided to change this attitude. Exercising healthy agency by refusing to chase every, mostly artificially stoked, trend is admirable, and I still value that instinct. But when I renounce every recommendation, even those from close friends, and retreat into obscure niches, I insulate myself bit by bit from the mainstream and thus from the shared experiences of an entire generation, depriving myself of any chance to feel genuine empathy for others.

I stop speaking the same cultural language. Following this new logic, I recently watched Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite, approaching it with open curiosity, and trying to meet the work on its own terms rather than through resentment. That was my small but deliberate experiment in loosening my stubborn grip.

In the film, the Kim family has hit rock bottom. Father, mother, son, and daughter live in a dim semi-basement and will take any odd job. Only when the youngest gets hired as a tutor in the ultra-chic villa of the Park family do the Kims board the carousel of class conflict.

With clever schemes, talent, and teamwork, they push out the Parks’ employees one by one. Before long, the Kims are indispensable to their new employers. Then an unforeseen incident sets off a chain of events as unpredictable as it is unbelievable.

I found Parasite as brilliant, surprising, and surreal as everyone said. I’m glad this positive experience is my first step back toward a renewed love of pop culture.

My Odyssey:

The Japanese language is a mountain that can be climbed only through perseverance, diligence, and the support of people who have already mastered it. Step by step, piece by piece, and word by word, I haul myself from one ledge to the next.

What began as a picturesque hike through the gentle woods of romaji, hiragana, and katakana, sweetened by simple vocabulary and understandable grammar, with one little success after another, turned, with each waystation I managed to reach, into a personal odyssey among ambiguous kanji, hazy shades of politeness, and pitch accents I can hardly distinguish.

As I climb, the air thins and I lean on the ropes offered by guides. Yet even as the path narrows and the rocks bite, the summit still glints somewhere ahead, inviting.

On my Japanese-learning journey so far I have ridden out every high and low. There is euphoria when I not only understand something but can reshape it and use it in my own words. And there is frustration when the cashier at the nearby supermarket asks me a question and all I can manage is 大丈夫, because from her stream of speech I could not catch any of the usual anchors like 伏る, カード, or 箸.

At those times I either feel a surge of drive and reconfigure my whole life into Japanese, listening to podcasts, buying stacks of manga, and watching YouTube, only to crash, burned out, a few days later. Or I simply want to quit, once and for all, and walk away from the mountain altogether.

After riding those emotional waves, I realized that everyone has to find a personal way of learning Japanese. For some people it works to ban every other language from daily life and, for a time, almost become Japanese. Others keep studying Spanish, Korean, and Icelandic alongside it and somehow rack up more progress than I do. For still others the best path is to keep things loose, curious, and fun, following interest rather than duty, and letting momentum build slowly.

I very clearly belong to that last group. And I count myself fortunate that there are kind people who actively encourage me, answer questions, correct my stumbles, and cheer from the trail as I keep moving forward, sometimes crawling, sometimes striding, but always, stubbornly, continuing the climb.

The Maddest Obsession:

From early youth, my life was divided into chapters named for the women I happened to love at the time. Whether in Berlin, in Tokyo, or wherever I drifted, and whether anything became a relationship, whether intimacy happened or not, it was always too easy for me to become so intent on one woman that she defined an entire era.

From this came obsessions that at times stretched across years, fed by depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and a self-diagnosed borderline condition, and they often ended in an emotional detonation. After a few quiet weeks or months, another woman would appear. Hopes, dreams, and fantasies were projected onto her, and the cycle began again.

There is a name for this hyperfocused state: Limerence. The term was introduced in 1979 by Dorothy Tennov, an American professor of behavioral psychology, in her book Love and Limerence.

It denotes an extreme form of being in love, already more than just having a simple crush on someone, and the patterns that accompany it: relentless, nearly compulsive thinking about the beloved. Longing for reciprocation. Constant fear of rejection. A blind spot for her negative traits. A narrowing of perception to objects and incidents that relate to her. And shyness and uncertainty in her presence.

According to Tennov, limerence may pass into love if a relationship takes hold. If it remains one-sided, it fades of its own accord, and the state can last from a few months to several years.

My limerences resulted in me organizing entire days around the woman I’m currently fixated on. There is no stalking on my part, yet jealousy and possessiveness appear, of course at odds with reality. When energy runs high, an open, charismatic version of me steps forward. When my body and mind are tired, withdrawal follows.

Over time it became clear that my fixation is not on the woman as she is, but on the separate fragments of an ideal assembled for her. The fall begins when my feelings go unreturned and expectations collapse, and the only useful act is an unconditional retreat and a renewed willingness to meet other people, with the hope that this vicious circle will finally break—no matter how, and by whom.

Hobo Horror:

Good stories put a quiet spell on me. Whether they arrive as books, films, or video games, what lingers afterward, often for far longer than I expect, isn’t the glossy, polished shell so many media try to sell these days, but the people inside and the moments that temper them into something tougher and wiser.

That is why adventures pull me in. Maniac Mansion, Leisure Suit Larry, and The Secret of Monkey Island don’t just tell varied, engaging tales—they let me stand close enough to feel them. And sometimes the mood can tilt darker, which suits me fine. So it does in the pulp thriller The Drifter, where the light thins and the edges grow hard.

In The Drifter we follow Mick Carter as he is hauled headfirst into a tangled web of shady corporations, murder, and a madman’s thousand-year obsession. The hobo has been adrift for a while, trading one job for another, never staying long anywhere. He jumps a freight car toward the town he once called home, witnesses a brutal killing, is chased by high-tech soldiers, thrown into a reservoir, and drowned.

That, however, is only the beginning of his trouble. His consciousness comes loose and is forced back into his body mere seconds before death. He ends up wanted for the murder he saw, tormented by his own past, and stalked by the conviction that something from the far side is on his trail.

What begins as supposed fantasies in a middle-aged loser’s head swiftly becomes a layered adventure suspended between a tragic past and a future that looks spent. The story moves Mick along at a sure pace, one situation to the next, with barely a breath in between.

One moment he’s assembling a Molotov cocktail from a bottle of high-proof rum. The next he’s interrogating a corrupt neurosurgeon. Before long he has to swing out of a high-rise window on a frayed extension cord.

The Drifter is a gripping rollercoaster of feeling, its lineages easy to sense: Steven King, Michael Crichton, and John Carpenter, with a trace of 1970s Australian grindhouse. In the end, good stories never die out.

Wurstcutters:

I never thought of myself as particularly attached to home, yet staying away too long causes a small ache that points, stubbornly, toward Germany. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the sound of the language, its clipped edges and sudden softnesses, absent from the air around me. At other moments a single habit or custom goes missing, and the day stumbles.

An unspoken social rule fails to hold where I am, and the floor feels a little slanted. There are days when none of that speaks loud enough, and the craving reduces itself to something simpler and more insistent: Food. The kind that anchors a life even when one pretends not to notice.

After almost a year in Japan, the local fare has become familiar and, I admit it, beloved. Sushi and sashimi. Ramen and soba. Karaage and tempura. Bowls of rice, miso soup drifting its warm salt, plates of pickled vegetables that square the meal.

When a different appetite insists, the shelves and coolers answer with Japanese versions of spaghetti, pizza, and richly filled sandwiches from convenience stores and neighborhood supermarkets, each with its own taste and charm that refuses easy comparison.

Still, there are hours when German hausmannskost presses forward. The Sunday dishes my grandmother conjured onto the table at noon, the steam rising as if from her sleeves. Beef roulades, käsespätzle, fried potatoes. Or, if nothing else, a good, moist loaf of black bread.

To quiet that longing, Erika and I went to the German beer restaurant Oden in downtown and set out to fill our bellies with Central European comforts. The menu staged its pretzels, bratwurst, and potato salads between Japanese side dishes in a way that didn’t look especially German, and the food came with chopsticks that we used with wide smiles on our faces.

The room didn’t shift into Bavaria, nor did time turn obliging. The city outside kept its pace, and we ate the meal it offered. Yet the distance shortened by a finger’s width, and the missing eased for the span of an afternoon, enough to carry me back into the week with a quieter hunger for home.

Fellowship of the Fat Dragon:

It’s no secret that, deep in my heart, I’m a nerd. I love wacky video games, quietly vibe to anime soundtracks, and enjoy stories in which foolish villagers become true heroes. Pen-and-paper adventures draw me in, and I gladly take part. Among mixed groups of barbarians, mages, and warlocks, I fight monsters, find great treasure, and rescue fair maidens.

Although my media consume often leads me down the psychological abysses of human beings to understand them, and perhaps myself, better, from time to time I simply need a hefty pinch of fantastic, humorous tales somewhere between fantasy and science fiction. The kind that let my soul hang loose. One such refuge was the film Honor Among Thieves from the Dungeons & Dragons universe, which I finally managed to watch recently.

Is there honor among thieves? Our unusual hero in this exciting fantasy flick certainly doesn’t ask. Former bard and thief Edgin breaks out of prison with his partner, the barbarian Holga. In a world full of long-lost legends, opaque magic, and overweight Wyrmsmiths, the two join the wizard Simon, the druid Doric, and the paladin Xenk to form a thieving crew.

Their special mission is clear: Recover a lost relic and stop the cunning rogue Forge and his dark plans. Yet he knows how to make the lives of our heroes as difficult as possible. The magical venture is full of dangers, and plenty goes wrong, but the thieves are not easily discouraged. Where there is no honor, there are no rules. Whatever awaits them, they will be ready. Perhaps.

Honor Among Thieves is a colorful, witty, and adventurous fantasy film in the best sense. The world around Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast invites a mental dive and resurfacing. It reminded me of those absurd pen-and-paper evenings with friends, when we pulled every kind of nonsense and regularly drove our game master to madness.

The film pleased me so much that I urgently long for a sequel. As a series, the story would also have worked. Some narrative strands could then have been told more fully. It was like a smaller The Lord of the Rings, one that doesn’t take itself quite as seriously as the original sometimes does. Through Honor Among Thieves, I rediscovered my affection for classic fantasy and would gladly see more of Edgin and his cheerful crew.

Weightless Wanderer:

Everyone seems to hold a different idea of minimalism. For me it means freedom. Freedom from objects that weigh on me, distract me, or hold me back. Consciously and unconsciously I try to remove, or at least shrink, anything that blocks spontaneity or agency.

Over the years I have learned to let go. I have noticed that many things that seem essential are nothing more than cargo—both material and mental. When they are gone, I breathe more steadily and act more directly.

Most of the time the rule is simple: Once something leaves my field of vision, it leaves my mind as well. The room created by subtraction becomes quiet, and in that quiet I can decide what I truly want.

I have become a nomad without fixed roots, moving from place to place and observing each location with childlike curiosity. Whether my journey stretches across Europe, America, and now Asia, or consists of a short walk to the nearest café, I want to rise, step out, and move without schedules, packing lists, or negotiation.

Even the laptop that once promised mobility began to interfere. Whenever I left the room I needed a backpack, and the weight on my shoulders sharpened my awareness of limitation.

That awareness felt heavy, not only on my body but on my thoughts. I learned that mobility is not only distance but also ease. When ease disappears, travel becomes a task rather than a movement.

To carry as little as possible and still be ready for anything, I placed my whole digital existence inside one object: my phone. It holds my books, movies, games, music, and personal pictures. I can write, photograph, and record anywhere, whether I sit by the sea, climb a hill, or lie in a hospital bed.

The screen guides me through unfamiliar streets, links me with other people, and manages my knowledge, plans, and finances. Even if the city unravels around me, the small rectangle in my pocket holds its quiet order and points me toward the next turn.

I no longer measure freedom by the number of things I own but by the lightness with which I can leave them behind. To me, pure minimalism is carrying my entire life in the single device that never leaves my side.

French Fantasy:

Since my earliest days I have loved Japanese role‑playing games. No other genre draws me so deep into hidden worlds, deliberate stories, and mentally unstable characters. Dragon Quest, Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger—whenever little boys rise to become god-slayers, I remain before the glowing screen for hundreds of hours, tracing each dialogue box while the world outside steadily burns to the ground.

Over the years I learned that these Far Eastern legends reach far beyond my room. They travel across languages and teach strangers to dream in the same fantasy worlds. Today their imprint is visible in Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, a surprise hit from a studio in France. The developers do not hide their admiration. It breathes through every single visible polygon.

The game unfolds on the small island of Lumière, housed inside the Belle Époque filtered through stone, steel, and smoke. For sixty‑seven years the inhabitants have faced an annual event called Gommage. Each summer a goddess known as the Paintress writes a number on the sky, always one smaller than the previous. Everyone whose age is the same or greater dies, quietly, without marks.

To break this cycle, the city council selects a squad after each ceremony and sends it across the channel to stop the Paintress before the next inscription. None have returned. Expedition 33 boards its vessel with hopes, dreams, and fears of what lies beyond the sea. We follow the march of these brave souls through a world that almost seems to be too beautiful to be true.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is not a Japanese role‑playing game, even when the palette, the soundtrack, and the battle rolls insist on that lineage.

During my journey I recognised fragments of NieR Automata, echoes of Final Fantasy, and the depths of Xenoblade Chronicles. Yet the imitation stops short of substance.

The protagonists are nothing but tristful replicas of stratified, flesh-and-blood individuals. The world changes little and blends together, its flora and fauna repeating in blurred loops, and the final revelation comes short in epicness.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is the Avatar: The Last Airbender of video games—a botched attempt to mimic the emotional range of its idols without grasping the force that makes the originals so devastating and compelling. What remains is a rebuilt framework in vaguely French attire. I’d rather stay inside my Japanese wonderlands.

Fishers of Men:

I have lived in Japan for almost a year now. The steady scrutiny that accompanies the life of a so‑called gaijin outside the big cities no longer unsettles me.

Children greet me as they coast past on bicycles, pensioners bow if I avoid blocking the aisles, and girls in navy uniforms let their eyes linger for a moment when they think no one notices.

Instead of discomfort, I feel quiet ease. People treat me with kindness or at least with courtesy that seems honest. Many are happy to speak a few words, test their English, or ask why I picked their town over the neon capitals they know from television. Each morning I rehearse simple Japanese, relieved when the sounds land cleanly.

I come from a country known for old wounds and a renewed appetite for exclusion. It’s hard for me to ignore or even forget that.

Japan is conservative, and I understood that before stepping off the plane, yet I was still shaken when an extremist party drew strong support in the recent election, most of it from voters my age or younger, some of them friends who share coffee with me on Saturdays.

Their approval surprised me more than the numbers on the screen. It showed me that the rejection I thought I had left behind can surface anywhere. The campaign’s orange flyers appeared suddenly, on walls and in hands. Some teachers at my university shrugged, saying protest votes were unavoidable, then changed the topic.

My frustration grew when I could not show those friendly, curious people how they were being guided. This nation’s fishers of men use the same routine every radical group prefers. Short slogans, invented statistics, and a steady supply of unease. With those tools they collect not only votes but also the public attention needed for patient work on real, often tangled problems.

Some asked why I remain liberal. The reason is simple and selfish. I want to live in a world that does not restrict movement, a place where eyes follow me only out of curiosity and never out of hate. Nothing else seems worth defending.

I remind myself that freedom rests on ordinary choices made every ordinary day. I count each conversation as practice for that defense, even when it ends in silence.

Konbinis Are Churches:

I was living on FamilyMart rice balls and low blood sugar dreams. Tokyo nights too hot to sleep and too cold to stay awake. It’s always 3:47 a.m. when you walk into a konbini. The neon light like a kiss from a dying god. The buzz of the fridges like the sigh of someone who’s given up.

Meet me at the 7-Eleven by the tracks. She brought a can of Strong Zero and an open wound. Konbinis are churches. Sacred spaces where nobody prays but everyone kneels. Bent before microwave ramen, counting coins.

The salaryman, suit crumpled like a used cigarette box. The girl with smeared lipstick, eyeliner like bruises. The boy in a school uniform who’s not going home tonight.

I stood in front of the refrigerated drinks like it was an altar. Pocari Sweat, lemon chu-hi, cold coffee in PET bottles. I bought a rice ball with salmon, a pack of melon bread, and a lighter I didn’t need.

My hands were shaking. I liked the way they shook. Made me feel alive, or close to it. Outside, the rain tasted like metal and regret. I sucked it off my lips and watched people slide through the streets like ghosts.

There’s a konbini every few blocks, like veins pumping sugar and trash into the city’s bloodstream. Every one of them the same. Open 24/7, eyes never blinking.

I can lose myself in them. Not in a romantic way. In the way people vanish into cracks, forgotten until they rot.

We sat under the flickering sign, plastic bags between us, fingers greasy from karaage. I bought condoms and a manga I didn’t understand. She bought cough syrup and a toothbrush. We were both lying.

The konbini is where you go when you have nowhere else. When your apartment’s too small, too quiet, too full of memory. When your body wants something. Salt, sugar, heat, nicotine.

You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Because the lights are always on. Because the shelves are always full. Because the world ends softly, one plastic bag at a time.

Let’s stay here forever, she said. Sure. But we both knew, morning was coming. And nothing golden ever stays.

Food and the City:

I’m collecting places like bruises. My plan is to swallow Kumamoto whole. I want its bars, its noodle shops, its grease-stained counters. I want every damn corner of this city that smells like soy and sweat.

I want sushi with my hands, ramen burning my tongue, pizza in alleys that look like everyone forgot they were alleys. I want it messy, I want it cheap, I want it at 2 a.m. when only ghosts and drunk boys are awake.

Neon-lit karaoke rooms where someone’s always crying into a mic. Dark izakayas where salarymen tell the same story again and again. Host clubs with smiles made of plastic and eyes like black tea. Coffee shops with maids, with books, with silence thick like syrup.

I’ll go. I’ll sit. I’ll eat. Whether it’s the city center pulsing like a neon heart, or out near the edge where the streets aren’t even part of a map.

Morning, noon, dusk, night. I don’t care. Just give me someone beside me. Someone local, someone who knows the places that don’t exist online. They take me there. And I pay in conversation. I pay in time. I give them stories. I give them laughter, a little light.

Like that one night with her. We found a hot pot joint downtown. The broth was boiling like we were. Meat, mushrooms, vegetables drowned in soy. We fished them out with chopsticks like tiny survivors. Robot waiters mercilessly rolled around with fake smiles and real pudding.

There’s no better way to know a place than to eat it. No better way to belong than to chew on its streets and sip its secrets. I don’t want the tourist version. I want the version with stains. The version with whispers.

I want every bite, every bar, every brokenhearted song in a tavern at midnight. I want Kumamoto to feed me until I forget why I ever came here in the first place.

And while the sauce stained our fingers and the sky got darker, we made quiet plans for what came next. Places we haven’t touched yet. Nights we still want to break open.

There was this feeling, buzzing just under my ribs, that maybe we’re not just consuming, surviving here. Maybe we’re building something.

A Serene Fairytale:

Who gives a shit what Hollywood’s golden boys are sweating over in their hot rooms with their endless rewrites and plastic champagne. Because at the beginning of this millennium something happened. Something too soft to scream and too sharp to forget.

The best movie of all time slipped through like smoke. Lost in Translation. And all the computer effects and starlet tits in the world can’t erase it.

Coked-up executives can pump a movie full of crap and call it love, but it won’t bleed like this one. It won’t ache like this one. This one didn’t even need Los Angeles, New York, or whatever American tax haven dump bent over the lowest—it had Tokyo like a slow pulse under pale skin.

Bob Harris is falling apart. A middle-aged ghost in a five-star coffin. With some whisky in one hand and endless exhaustion in the other. Charlotte is drowning quietly in a fresh white dress, married but lonely like a window in winter.

They find each other in silence, in elevator glances, in night-blue bars and half-empty hotel pools. No grand confession. No clichéd strings. Just that quiet panic of two souls brushing against each other in a foreign city that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

They don’t fall in love. They dissolve together. Time fucks them over like it always does. But for a few moments, they forget the script. They make up something better. Something real.

Bill Murray doesn’t act. He exists. Scarlett Johansson doesn’t fake. She glows like she’s lit from inside by something bruised and holy. Sofia Coppola doesn’t direct. She whispers through the lens. And somewhere in the distance I can hear Happy End’s Gather the Wind, like an echo that holds this serene fairytale together.

Lost in Translation isn’t for people looking for endings. It’s for the ones who stare at strangers in the subway and want to cry. For those who fall in love with cities. With moments. With people they were never supposed to meet. It’s for the broken, the dreamers, the ones who can’t stop remembering things that never quite happened. And yeah. It’s fucking beautiful.

My Plum Ghost:

I participated in an art contest. Nothing serious, but it swallowed me whole. The theme was Yokai. Japanese spirits, monsters, the beautiful weirdness that lives between shadows and dreams.

For this, I built a canvas with my bare hands in my Japanese Arts class. Cut the wood, stretched the cloth. I wanted it to feel like something real. Not digital. Not fake. Something that bleeds when touched.

I used traditional materials. Glue, brushes, powdered pigments that smelled like the inside of a shrine. Nothing fancy. Just old magic.

I spent days sitting in our classroom, hunched over it like a secret I couldn’t share. The canvas stared back at me. It whispered things. Or maybe I was just tired.

My yokai was mine. No one else’s. A hybrid born from salt and fear—a cross between umeboshi, that sour, shriveled plum that tastes like a punch in the mouth, and umibozu, the sea ghost with a black, formless body that capsizes ships when no one’s looking.

I called it Umebozu. A pun. A joke only the sea would understand. It looks like a plum, but it drowns you. The painting was a colorful homage. An amateurish love letter.

I shaped my small world to mirror Katsushika Hokusai’s wooden masterpiece The Great Wave off Kanagawa, but in a more cheerful way. The yokai stared from the center of the storm. Big eyes. Wrinkled skin. A hidden smile that made me happy.

People asked what it meant, and I explained. They smiled. They liked it. Sometimes I imagined the Umebozu slipping off the page, crawling into the real world, hiding in rain puddles or tea cups or behind vending machines late at night.

I started seeing it everywhere. The curve of a wave in the river. The color of a bruise on my arm. It followed me home in the folds of my clothes, in the ink under my fingernails. I dreamed of salt and storms and laughing things that lived in the sea.

And when I woke up, I missed it. I missed him. My little yokai. My plum ghost. Maybe he was never just a joke. Maybe he was the part of me that never fit, never spoke. But always smiled.

Call Me Ishmael:

I was drifting. Low blood sugar. Air like soup. I hadn’t eaten all day, or maybe I had, I don’t remember. I was walking through a supermarket in Japan, one of those blinding clean ones, all neon light and weird elevator music. Cold, too cold. Fish eyes watching me from slabs of ice.

And then there it was. Whale. Rae flesh like wet velvet. Whispering to me from behind cellophane. I stared at it the way I stare at someone I’ve seen in a dream before. Wrong and perfect at the same time.

Bought it like buying a secret. No one stopped me. No one said a word. The machine at the checkout beeped after I fed it with some yen. And then the small pieces of a slaughtered giant were mine.

Back home, the silence was loud. I didn’t cook it. Just opened the package, dropped the slices on some shredded carrots and radish, squeezed a lemon wedge like a little prayer. Ate them with some metal chopsticks. They tasted like horse. Like blood and memory.

I thought about the whales. I thought about the protests and the documentaries and the guilt people wear like expensive jackets. I thought about extinction and betrayal and all the things I’m not supposed to do.

But mostly I thought: when else? When else would I ever get to know this feeling, this very specific wrongness melting in my mouth like ice cream? I ate the whole thing. Slowly. Like a ritual. Like a dare.

And when it was done, I just sat there. No music. No talking. Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of my own breath, sticky and strange, rising and falling like I was learning how to breathe for the first time.

There was something curling in my gut, not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction—something older. Animal. Primitive. Like I’d remembered something I shouldn’t have.

Next time, I want to eat dolphin. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe to feel worse. Maybe to feel better. Or maybe just to feel anything at all. To scratch some unreachable itch deep inside me. It’s not about taste. It’s not even about curiosity anymore. It’s about going somewhere I can’t come back from.

A Neon Disease:

Neo-Tokyo is a wound. It breathes smoke and vomits neon. It’s filthy. It’s alive. The streets are soaked in broken dreams. Syringes, sex, safe hopelessness. Skyscrapers scream in color, pink and blue and acid green. And deep inside this cyberpunk hellhole, built onto the ruins of a wiped out city, lives Tetsuo. He was a boy, like so many others.

Then a special kind of magic awakened inside him. Power. Screaming, impossible power. Not even he could hold it. And then the men in the shadows came. The ones in coats. With needles. With wires. With orders. Contain him, they said. Because they were afraid, of Akira. Always Akira. That name. That myth. That black hole of a boy.

Kaneda loved Tetsuo like a brother. Rode like a god on that red beast of a bike. Fast enough to forget. Tough enough to survive. They were kids. Rebels. Orphans. Dust. Racing through trash-light and chemical rain, chasing adrenaline, chasing heat.

No dreams, just the hum of the engine and the static on the radio. They didn’t ask for meaning. They just wanted to burn. Then the city turned. Started watching them. Started whispering their names into the wires.

Until the streets swallowed Tetsuo whole. Split him open, filled him with electricity, madness, grief. Not love, not anymore. Just power. Too much. Way too much. Kaneda couldn’t reach him.

Akira bled into the eyes of a nation. It was ugly. Beautiful. Real. Black ink on white paper like veins bursting under skin. Katsuhiro Otomo didn’t tell the future. It was the future. Then, the screen couldn’t hold it. The movie exploded. Cells melted. Worlds shifted. We all got infected.

No one was safe. Not the artists. Not the kids. Not the ones who thought they’d seen it all. Neo-Tokyo became a virus. A neon disease that glittered in the dark and tasted like sugar, sluts, and static.

I saw it once, and it lived in me. Curled up behind my teeth. Waited in my spine. Everything changed after that. They said it was fiction. But it was prophecy. And we’re still catching up.

The Wandering Mind:

Sometimes I’m not sure whether the world I currently find myself in is real. Then I strain to search for glitches that the simulation around me may have overlooked—only to eventually give up in frustration and realize, disappointed, that I’m not permitted to catch even the slightest glimpse behind the curtain.

And this despite the fact that I could swear there have been enough moments in my life when I should have slipped into eternal oblivion. Yet I’m still here—if only in the fading aftereffects of my own thoughts.

Perhaps I’m forbidden from being forgotten—by myself as well as by others. I was born in the year of dystopia, on an unremarkable winter morning somewhere in southern Germany. My mother raised me on her own, supported by her family, who soon became mine as well.

I was never particularly diligent, let alone ambitious. Instead of doing homework, I preferred to daydream and lose myself in the colorful worlds of television series, video games, and fantasy novels. After catching enough Pokémon, watching enough anime, and kissing enough girls in my small hometown, I eventually felt drawn out into the big wide world.

I found myself in Berlin, Tokyo, and New York. In London, Paris, and Rome. In China, Canada, and Turkey. Whether I was ever truly in those places, or whether all my small and great adventures took place only in my imagination, may perhaps reveal itself at the end of my journey.

At the moment, I’m roaming the streets of a mid-sized city in southwestern Japan while studying the analog and digital arts of depressed people and even more depressed robots. After searching far too long for the truth of everything within myself, I recently decided to throw myself into the unknown with open arms and allow myself to be swallowed by the countless possibilities of this planet.

Culture Isn’t a Museum:

I swore to myself I’d wring every last drop of experience from this burning, breathing, chaotic place called Kumamoto. Time is a cruel lover, always ready to leave, so I decided to chase after moments like they were pills I could swallow to stay alive just a little longer. When my friend asked if I wanted to go to a classical concert with her, I said yes before my thoughts even had time to catch up.

It was one of those days where the sun painted everything gold, like the whole world had been dipped in light. We’d just eaten something amazing. Rice soft as clouds, soup that tasted like secrets passed down from grandmothers, miso clinging to the corners of our mouths like a gentle goodbye kiss.

We walked slowly, almost lazily, like the city belonged to us. Bustling sidewalks, vending machines humming like they were keeping some rhythm only locals understood, children chasing pigeons, pigeons chasing dreams. The concert hall rose up like something quite sacred. Glass, stone, elegance. Inside, it was full of families. Kids cheering, parents looking tired but kind.

Onstage, a young man played the flute like it was an extension of his body. First came classical pieces, and then, like a soft rebellion, the familiar notes of My Neighbor Totoro. The air changed. Ghibli music isn’t just music. It’s memories. It’s growing up and not realizing it. It’s wonder wrapped in bittersweet sadness.

A woman stepped forward, her voice strong, deep, and fearless. She sang with her whole body. Then a child, probably no older than twelve, took the mic and trembled out a few songs, eyes wide, voice like paper folding itself into cranes.

And then something beautiful and absurd happened. People started dancing. Singing. Laughing like they were drunk on something better than alcohol. We were all kids again.

Culture isn’t a museum. It isn’t glass cases and hushed tones. It’s loud, alive, and full of rhythm. It’s messy. It’s fun. It’s the sound of childhood slipping through a flute, turning strangers into something softer than friends. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel alone.

Bubbling Like a Fever:

The city is opening up to me like a fairytale. At first, it was gray, anonymous, all edges and noise. But now it’s bleeding color—flashing signs, temple eaves glowing under dusk, vending machines humming like lullabies. Kumamoto. It wasn’t mine, not at all. But I started stealing pieces of it. Slowly.

Every time I open a new door or take a wrong turn, the city breathes a little louder. I’m beginning to hear its rhythm. Every day, something reveals itself. The blank spots in my head, those static-filled no-places—they’re finally vanishing. They become convenience stores glowing at midnight, playgrounds with rusty swings, alleys where cats stare like they know what I’m hiding.

I found people too. Accidental encounters. Strangers who became storylines who became friends. Faces, voices, footsteps beside mine. They teach me things. We walk this city like it’s a puzzle we’re trying to solve with our bodies. They show me corners I wouldn’t have dared to enter alone. We move through it, through each other, like we belong nowhere.

The city never waited for me. But somehow it lets me in. It stares back at me with curiosity, like it’s trying to figure out what kind of ghost I am. Every corner hides something either heartbreakingly old or ridiculously new. Shrines behind cafés. Salarymen passed out on benches. High schoolers eating fries like it’s a ritual.

We visited a mall the other day. Huge. Unapologetic. Floating over the train station like a spaceship made of steel and fluorescent dreams. On top of it, above the noise and sorrows, red broth was bubbling in a hot pot like a fever. Meat curling. Mushrooms blooming. Vegetables losing their color like they were giving up dreams.

The city sprawled outside the window, buildings layered like old scars. And we sat there above it all, dipping, chewing, and talking about everything and nothing. We burned our tongues and fears at the shabu-shabu place. We laughed. And we promised not to waste a moment, not to go quiet. That day felt like part of the city decided to remember us back.

Love Machines:

Being in Japan feels like a dream on loop—neon syrup, dazed smiles, and a never-ending maze of misconception. I think I’m free, that I’m just wandering past Tokyo’s electric veins, Osaka’s late-night sighs, and Kyoto’s soft ghosts.

But soon, really, really soon, this particular feeling appeared out of nowhere. A tickle on the back of my neck. Not fear. Not paranoia. Something subtler. The feeling of being watched. Observed. Loved, maybe, in a machine-made way.

They’re everywhere. It doesn’t matter if I’m lost in the middle of Shibuya’s famous crossings, walking through a rain-washed mountain village where even the wind feels exalted, or just crying behind the supermarket.

It’s 2 p.m. or 4 a.m. or some haunted hour in between. In the heat of summer, in the ache of winter. Alone in a forest, or swallowed by a crowd of strangers. They always find me. The machines. Vending machines. Jidouhanbaiki.

They glow like altar fires, humming softly to themselves, full of answers I didn’t ask for. They don’t just sell drinks. That would be too easy. They whisper temptations in aluminum and plastic—icy lemon soda, scorching black coffee, milk tea with floating pearls.

But they go further. They offer me exotic fruits sealed in glossy wrapping. Used underwear, when I’m feeling lonely. Ties, raincoats, and umbrellas like forgotten lovers. They’re more than machines.

They’re quiet survivors, like junkies who got clean but never quite forgot the high. The convenience stores might be the heartbeat of Japan, but the vending machines are the blood—rushing, steady, always there. They never close. They never talk back. They offer me something warm in the cold and something cold when I’m burning.

Sometimes, they look like art. And sometimes, they are art. Metal dreams stacked with color-coded longing, waiting for me on every corner like a past version of myself who still believes in miracles. I don’t know if they’re watching me. Or if they are me. But I keep pressing buttons. And they keep giving me what I didn’t know I needed.

Memoirs of a Samurai:

Kumamoto Castle rises against the sky. We stand at its base, looking up. A monument of samurai, sieges, fires. The earthquake, when the ground split open and the walls crumbled. They rebuilt it. Stone by stone, piece by piece, putting history back together. Some parts new, some parts old, all of it held together by something invisible. Effort. Memory. Time.

The air feels different here, charged with something that isn’t quite present but isn’t gone either. We walk along the stone walls, stopping where the lines blur between past and present. Some of the stones are darker, weathered, soaked with rain, with sun, with war. Others are newer, cleaner, set into place with precision and care.

Inside, the past lingers behind glass. Swords, armor, old rifles that still seem to hum with gunpowder and blood. A mask stares at us, its iron grin sharp, empty. Behind it, a face once breathed, once sweated, once fought. Now it’s just lacquer and metal, something to be looked at, something to be remembered. Names carved into plaques, letters written by hands.

Words fade, ink smudges, but the feeling stays. The smell of iron, of old paper, of wood polished smooth by time. Outside, the world is loud again. The food market is alive, thick with the smell of frying oil, of soy sauce, of something sweet drifting in the warm air. Steam rises from skewers, from bowls of noodles, from sizzling pans.

We find a small shop selling fried croquettes with minced horse meat inside. The first bite is hot, rich, and unfamiliar. The second, deeper. The third lingers, something heavy, something that doesn’t quite belong to the present. The wind shifts, carrying voices—chatter, laughter, orders being called out from behind the stalls.

But beneath it all, something else, something older. Hoofbeats in the dirt. The distant clash of metal. The low murmur of men waiting for battle. The taste of salt, of iron, of something unspoken. Night falls, and the castle glows in the dark. It stands tall again. The sky stretches wide above it, deep and endless, as if history itself could dissolve into the black.

Last Night I Dreamt of Flowers:

Tokyo swallows me in its heat. The asphalt quivers, glass panes tremble. Neon lights flicker in my eyes like broken memories. I drift with the crowd, let myself be pushed, my body feverish, my head full of everything and nothing. Then I’m inside—inside the world of teamLab. Borderless—no walls, no doors, no boundaries. Only light.

Waves of color ripple across the floor, over my shoes, over my hands. The warmth of the room caresses my skin, as if the light itself had fingers. I walk on. A dark hall. Then—explosions of flowers, meadows rising from shadows, pollen drifting in slow motion. I raise my hand, and the room shifts with me. My body is a line in a poem writing itself.

I run through the rain of the artificial night, lights bursting on my tongue like candy. My reflection fractures into glassy surfaces—thousands of versions of me staring back. Girls made of light, boys made of shadows, ghosts in a city that never stands still. Someone laughs, a sound like an echo from a dream. I lie down on the floor, looking up into the nothingness, flooded with color.

No beginning, no end—only this moment. My heart beats to the rhythm of the light. I close my eyes. Tokyo whispers. And I’m weightless. I dive deeper into the colors, as if I could drown in an ocean of light. But it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like being lost, like time has stopped chasing me.

The walls breathe, the floor pulses, and I forget myself in the movement, in the silence, in this odd dance of pixels and dust. Everything is near and distant at once, like the sound of a song I’ve never heard but somehow remember. Every step reshapes the world around me, painting a new image onto the canvas of space.

A flower blooms beneath my feet, and in its petals, I see myself—fractured yet whole, shifting through all my contradictions. I turn in circles. Colors weave and unwind, vanish only to return. The light makes my thoughts flicker, my heart jumps to the beat of a melody only space knows. It’s a dream that never ends. Or maybe it’s the moment I finally wake up.

One Night in Ikebukuro:

If I want to experience Japan at its most exuberant, I must venture into the heart of Tokyo after sunset. Ikebukuro is the Sodom and Gomorrah of this East Asian island. Here, night after night, the pent-up energy of identical-suited salary men is unleashed in its fullest.

In the countless bars and restaurants of this neighborhood—renowned far beyond Japan’s borders thanks to films, novels, and video games—people eat, drink, and penetrate each other until the first subway train runs again in the early morning.

Ikebukuro is a place of love—whether real, fake, or simply for sale. Anyone left alone in the glow of the colorful billboards must be doing something seriously wrong.

Ikebukuro never sleeps. A district of electricity and nicotine, cheap cocktails, and burnt-out light bulbs, trapped between the wings of the Yamanote Line. The neon lights twitch like frayed nerves on the brink of collapse. Pachinko balls rain against metal walls, the city breathes fast and greedy, like someone who has smoked too many cigarettes yet still craves another.

I wander through the streets, my eyes half-closed, half-awake. The air smells of ramen, of unspoken words, of hot plastic and the dreams of those who seek refuge here. Girls with gum-sticky lips linger outside love hotels. Boys in cheap suits lean against walls, waiting for something that may never come.

In Sunshine City, the entire town is reflected in the glass facades. There is a point up there from which I can see everything: The chaos, the glimmer, the people losing themselves. Stay, the city whispers. Here, I can be anything—a ghost, a shadow, a song that never stops playing. Ikebukuro is an ember that never burns out.

I dance through the light, lose myself in the shadows, and observe the mayhem. The city murmurs stories in my ear—tales of broken promises and nights that never wanted to end. Somewhere behind the flickering signs and steaming food stalls lies another life. But my feet remain stuck here, as if the asphalt had long since decided that I should never leave.

Life’s a Bowl of Ramen:

One of the favorite pastimes of people here in Kyushu is asking me about my favorite Japanese food. My answer depends on the day, but I usually say ramen. And no, I don’t mean the cheap instant kind you find in supermarkets. I mean real ramen—made with real ingredients. The kind you find in a tiny restaurant tucked away in some unknown back alley.

Nothing revives me more at night than a hot, steaming bowl of soup filled with noodles, meat, vegetables, mushrooms, and a soft-boiled egg. And because I spent years addicted to Sriracha and thoroughly destroyed my taste buds, I pile on as much chili powder and fresh garlic as the Japanese immigration authorities will allow.

Getting into ramen is like diving into a rabbit hole of broths, noodle varieties, and regional specialties. Originally, wheat noodle soup came from China, but in the early 20th century, Japan adopted it and made it their own. After World War II, when wheat imports from the U.S. increased, ramen became a staple. Today, every region has its own version.

Some shops simmer their broth for over 24 hours to achieve the perfect flavor. Others focus on experimental fusion creations—something that fascinates me as much as the food itself. I’ve tried quite a few bowls of ramen, and despite all the variations, one truth remains: A good bowl of ramen always feels like coming home.

On my trip to Fukuoka, I couldn’t miss the chance to try the city’s most famous dish—one that’s beloved far beyond Japan’s borders: Tonkotsu ramen. This broth is the opposite of subtle—thick, smooth, and packed with umami. The secret? Pork bones simmered for hours until they break down, infusing the soup with that unmistakable milky richness.

The noodles are thinner than in other types of ramen, allowing them to absorb the heavy broth. It’s served with tender pork belly, fresh spring onions, and a creamy egg. If you know what you’re doing, you order a noodle refill. My sensei and I certainly did enjoy it at 大砲ラーメン. Tonkotsu ramen isn’t just a dish—it’s an addiction.

Fonts Turn Words Into Stories:

I adore good typography. The bigger, bolder, and more brutal it is, the more I fall in love with it. Whether classically placed on a snow-white background or chaotically scattered across colorful illustrations, typography is truly effective only when it snaps people out of their wandering thoughts the moment they see it.

As British artist Mark Boulton aptly observed: Most people think typography is about fonts. Most designers think typography is about fonts. Typography is more than that, it’s expressing language through type. Placement, composition, typechoice. And as part of our ongoing design studies, we took a trip to Fukuoka to visit an annual typography exhibition.

Nestled on the northern shore of Japan’s beautiful Kyushu Island, Fukuoka is a vibrant city where tradition and modernity blend seamlessly. Known for its welcoming atmosphere, it’s a haven for food lovers, with steaming bowls of Hakata ramen served at bustling yatai street stalls.

Beyond its culinary delights, Fukuoka boasts serene temples like the iconic Kushida Shrine, sandy beaches, and a quite thriving art scene. With walkable streets, sleek shopping districts, and a reputation for being one of Japan’s most livable cities, Fukuoka offers curious visitors like us a chance to experience Japanese renowned warmth and innovation, all wrapped in an irresistible coastal charm.

The exhibition itself was a vibrant exploration of Asian and Western typography created by students and masters alike. Whether featured in books, on posters, or even online, the famous Japanese dedication to perfection was evident in every single project.

Personally, I was especially drawn to works that made bold use of hiragana, katakana, and kanji, creating a modern form of calligraphy that made my Japanophile heart beat faster. After viewing the exhibition, we had the freedom to explore Fukuoka on our own. We first hopped on a bus to the city center, treated ourselves to a bowl of hot ramen, and then wandered through the streets to soak in more of this enchanting city.

Me at the Zoo:

They said it was for our Japanese Arts Class. Something about sketching wild animals to improve our line sensitivity. But in reality, it was about sunshine, good company, and getting to know some new place—at least for me.

I walked to the local zoo on the other side of the city. It took hours, but I didn’t mind. I had my AirPods with some cheesy J-pop on and the sky above me was this deep electric blue, full of possibility.

I passed babbling creeks that glittered like broken mirrors and old parks where tiny dogs pulled at their leashes like they had somewhere better to be. Streets were quiet, except for the soft whir of bicycle wheels and wind brushing tree leaves like secrets.

At the zoo, I met my friends. Paint-stained fingers, backpacks full of snacks and sketchbooks. We were a mess, but in a beautiful way. The kind that makes old ladies smile at you like they remember being wild once too.

We wandered through the zoo like it was a playground for our eyes. Yeah, the cages were small. But even depressed animals are at least something. Tigers with lazy elegance. Bears scratching their backs against stones like it was their full-time job. Flamingos standing like proud poets in pink.

Then came the petting area. Round guinea pigs, soft like clouds, twitchy noses, black and soulless eyes, the kind of small joy that gets under my skin in the best way possible.

We rode the creaky Ferris wheel and watched over the lake, surrounded by red oaks. Then we found these old mechanical animals. We dropped in a coin and zoomed across the pavement like we were five again. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

Lunch under the trees. Bentos from the nearest konbini, crispy chicken, egg rolls, rice sprinkled with furikake. Someone had these chocolate cubes wrapped in gold foil.

We shared, laughing with our mouths full. We didn’t talk about work. Or stress. Or anything heavy. Just strolling, eating, laughing. Making something out of the moment.

We were together, the sun was shining, and it felt like one of those days I tuck into my memory forever.

To the Lighthouse:

The lanterns outside 老之倉庫 glowed with a soft, amber light, cutting through the early evening haze like scattered fireflies. It was the kind of place you’d pass a hundred times without noticing until someone told you it was worth stepping inside. That someone, in my case, was a group of classmates from Sojo University.

After the school festival, they had decided we should celebrate here. Inside, the air was warm, alive with the hum of conversation and the low, melodic clinking of glasses. The aroma of hops blended with the scent of food. I found myself at a long table, surrounded by faces that were both familiar and foreign, a constellation of new friendships still forming.

You don’t drink? someone asked, their tone more curious than judgmental. No, but I’m here for the company. This answer seemed to satisfy them, and soon the table’s attention turned back to ordering. Golden drafts arrived, frothy and luminous, like small suns. I watched as my friends lifted their glasses in a toast, their voices rising together in a symphony of celebration. Kanpai!

It wasn’t the beer that mattered. It was the act of sharing, of weaving ourselves into the rhythm of the evening. My oolong tea’s earthy bitterness grounded me, a counterpoint to the effervescence of the room. As I sipped, I thought about how people often seek connection through what they consume.

The conversation ebbed and flowed. Stories about the festival, plans for the weekend, fragments of dreams shared in halting English and Japanese. Outside, the city exhaled softly, the sounds of distant cars and bicycles slipping through the cracks of the night. By the time we left, the lanterns had grown brighter, their glow pooling on the cobblestones like liquid amber.

I felt lighter somehow, not because of what I had drunk but because of the time spent together, the threads of connection woven tighter. As we slowly walked to one of Kumamoto’s karaoke clubs, I realized that Ichinosoko wasn’t just a place to drink, it was a place to belong, even if only for an evening.

The School Festival:

Over the weekend, my Japanese university transformed into a vibrant school festival. Students from all faculties buzzed around the campus like busy bees, setting up tents, stages, and stalls, and filling them with life, color, and energy.

There was an abundance of food, drinks, games, performances, raffles, and competitions—including a show by a somewhat famous idol from Tokyo, whose appearance drew an enthusiastic crowd. The spectacle concluded with a dazzling fireworks display that lit up the night sky.

Afterward, we gathered at an izakaya downtown for the final celebration, where we laughed, reminisced, and spent our hard-earned money on very delicious food and drinks.

Our group ran a stall at the festival, selling Sri Lankan delicacies like fried noodles with meat. My first day began at the archery clubhouse on the outskirts of campus, where we worked together to prepare the ingredients—carefully cutting meat and vegetables into bite-sized and pan-ready portions.

Once everything was ready, we transported it to our stall, where the ingredients were fried to perfection, packed into transparent boxes, and enthusiastically advertised to passing festival-goers.

Meanwhile, students from other courses were equally busy, offering sweet waffles, hot yakitori, fresh coffee, and an assortment of games like goldfish catching, ring tossing, and a lively lottery.

Gamers showcased their skills in intense Super Smash Bros. matches, flexed their strength in arm wrestling contests, and danced with boundless energy to popular K-pop hits.

As the festival neared its end, the main stage transformed into the site of an exciting raffle. Visitors who had diligently collected stamp marks at various food and game stalls over the two days eagerly awaited their chance to win fantastic prizes like AirPods, smartwatches, and even a Nintendo Switch.

Our reward was simpler yet equally satisfying: Feasting on leftover food, savoring the beauty of the fireworks display, and, to top it all off, visiting an izakaya and singing our hearts out at karaoke in the city center.

At the Soy Sauce Brewery:

The water reached two meters, Sodai Iwanaga recounted, gesturing toward the flood lines that once submerged his hometown of Ashikita, in Kumamoto Prefecture. In 2020, torrential rains devastated Kyushu, leaving 77 dead and two missing. Among those affected was the Iwanaga family, proud soy sauce producers now in their fifth generation.

Despite the devastation, the Iwanagas never considered abandoning the business, founded in 1909. Instead, they turned to crowdfunding, raising nearly $90,000 from almost 1,000 supporters. Messages of encouragement poured in, including one that read, Our dining table has never been without a bottle of Iwanaga soy sauce.

We visited the Iwanagas’ brewery as part of our graphic design course at Sojo University. Located in Ashikita, a serene town in the southern part of Kumamoto near the west coast, the small factory is renowned for its high-quality local products. Soy sauces, vinegars, and miso pastes are crafted here with remarkable care and passion, embodying generations of tradition and dedication.

As very creative design students, however, our interest extended far beyond the flavors and meticulous production methods. While we were deeply moved by the tales of resilience in the face of a devastating natural disaster, our focus was more on the visual language of their high quality products.

The scars of the disaster remain visible across Ashikita, from damaged homes to fragments of daily life unearthed at mudslide sites. Yet, resilience and determination define the community’s spirit. Residents have worked tirelessly to rebuild, even as memories of the destruction linger.

Shattered neighborhoods are finding new life, and local traditions, like soy sauce brewing, have emerged as symbols of perseverance. The Iwanagas’ approach not only preserves tradition but also captures the essence of Ashikita’s spirit, creating products that tell a story beyond their taste or texture. It’s a testament to the strength of a town determined to rebuild itself, one bottle of soy sauce at a time.

Day at the Museum:

Few places in the world exude a more peaceful aura than museums and galleries—though perhaps supermarkets at 4 o’clock in the morning come close. These sanctuaries of natural wonders, historical milestones, and cultural achievements stand apart from the chaotic events of the outside world.

Those who step inside join an exclusive clientele, people who have deliberately chosen to immerse themselves in what they hope is an inspiring parallel universe. Within these walls, time seems to pause, encouraging visitors to leave with the aspiration of making the world a little better—or at least not worse. A friend and I recently visited the Contemporary Art Museum here in Kumamoto.

Situated in the heart of the city, this museum is far more than a repository of art—it is a symbol of Kumamoto’s commitment to inclusivity, creativity, and forward-thinking ideals. Its mission is clear: To foster a tolerant city that embraces diversity and to inspire a future where every citizen can live a fulfilling, art-enriched life.

The museum’s vision is built upon three core principles: offering a welcoming space for cultural exploration, stirring deep emotional connections through art, and collaborating with the community to envision a brighter future for the city. This is a place of reflection, imagination, and shared inspiration—a space where the lively spirit of Kumamoto is celebrated.

The exhibitions we explored at the Contemporary Art Museum in Kumamoto ranged from thought-provoking Japanese paintings to intimate photography and interactive installations, each one a visually stunning testament to the museum’s dedication to showcasing a rich tapestry of creative expression. By the end of our visit, we even had the chance to become part of a colorful, participatory work of art.

Kumamoto deeply values culture, and the Contemporary Art Museum is just the beginning of my journey. There are countless museums, galleries, and exhibitions waiting for me to discover, each promising its own unique contribution to the city’s vibrant artistic landscape.

Gotta Catch ‘Em All:

There’s always something interesting happening in the center of Kumamoto. On my way to the city’s downtown museum with a friend to check out a few free public exhibitions on a special open day, we stumbled upon a toy swap meet in front of a popular shopping center—and the runtish crowd that came with it.

This colorful event didn’t catch us entirely off guard, as our art teachers had not only warned us in advance but also handed us a few action figures to trade. So, before immersing ourselves in the world of paintings, photography, and installations, we took a deep breath and dove into the exciting universe of bright plastic toys, cute plush animals, and shiny trading cards.

As with most things here in Japan, the swap meet also had some kind of system. At one stand, we could exchange our action figures for points, which we then used to buy toys displayed on the other tables. The more valuable the product, the more points it cost—simple enough. Wandering through mountains of Far Eastern playthings, we picked out a few favorites.

I chose a small book about Japanese ghost figures, which fit perfectly with my participation in the yokai drawing competition. I was quite thrilled with my find, though we didn’t have enough points for much else. What we weren’t prepared for was the grand finale waiting for us at the very end of the amusing event.

The climatic highlight of the swap meet was an auction, where children, parents, and some random nerds like me could bid their leftover points on especially valuable toys. The selection included everything from Pokémon plushies to musical instruments and brightly wrapped plastic sculptures, the purpose of which I still can’t fathom.

While I spent just two small points on my cute book, the little monsters around us were screaming bids in the triple digits just to take home a goofy-looking sheep. Some kids cried. After witnessing this lively social and cultural spectacle, we finally made our way to the museum. Admission was eventually free on that very day, after all. Hurray!

Draw Me Like One of Your Yokai:

I recently joined a drawing class here at my university in Kumamoto. After learning the fundamentals of Japanese painting over the past few weeks, it’s now time to put that knowledge into practice.

Most of the works my diligent fellow students create, sometimes after months of effort, are entered into various competitions, primarily national ones, offering not only fame and honor but sometimes even monetary rewards or other prizes.

Following the well-known saying, When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I’ve decided to participate in a competition as well. And I’ve really found a good one: The sunny island of Shodoshima is hosting a drawing competition with a focus on yokai.

Yokai are supernatural creatures, spirits, or beings from Japanese folklore, embodying a wide range of traits from mischievous and playful to malevolent and terrifying. They often reflect cultural beliefs, natural phenomena, or moral lessons.

Famous examples include Kappa, water-dwelling creatures known for their fondness for cucumbers and cunning tricks, Kitsune, fox spirits associated with intelligence and shapeshifting, and Tengu, bird-like beings often depicted as mountain protectors and skilled martial artists.

Yokai are deeply rooted in Japanese culture, often appearing in famous myths, art, and even way more modern media like anime, manga, and video games.

The required canvas size is manageable enough to give beginners like me a fair chance. My teachers kindly provided books on yokai and encouraged me to gather inspiration, develop ideas, and start sketching.

I now have just under a month to complete the painting, which includes preparing the canvas and producing the necessary paints, colors, and glue. I’m very glad that my fellow students are also there to help me.

If I win, I’ll not only receive money and a special artifact but also be part of a ceremony on the beautiful island of Shodoshima. Wish me luck as I compete against master’s students, amateur artists, and professional painters. How hard could it be, am I right you guys?

Ghosts in the City:

A few years ago, I snuck out of the house on Halloween night and wandered through my dark, foggy, and eerily deserted hometown. With a scary story by ghost hunter John Sinclair playing in my ear, this one about a brothel haunted by vampires, it felt like the perfect entertainment for such a spooky night.

The atmosphere was electrifying, the kind of mystery that sends shivers down your spine in the best possible way. The only person I encountered that evening was a long-haired bottle collector making his rounds through the dense fog, his silhouette occasionally flickering into view before vanishing again. Every second of that enigmatic Halloween was unforgettable.

Since that night, I’ve developed a deep fondness for exploring the streets of whichever city I find myself in during Halloween. This year, as I’m living in Japan, I made it a priority to continue my quiet tradition here. My daily route often winds around the castle park, past residential buildings, shops, and Kumamoto’s always-vibrant downtown.

Around Halloween, this area transforms into a lively spectacle, with the market square near the popular bus station bursting with food stalls, shops, and a small but lively stage. In the heart of the square, a mix of cute witches, playful ghosts, and furries scurried about, juggling pizza slices, Coca-Cola bottles, and shopping bags.

On stage, children were applauded for their creative costumes. One memorable highlight was a little girl dressed as Sailor Moon, confidently shouting into the microphone with such enthusiasm that it took a gentle intervention to end her impromptu performance.

Halloween has always held a special place in my heart, but celebrating it in a city where others embrace it with equal fervor elevates the experience to another level. There’s a unique magic in blending my reflective tradition of wandering with the vibrant communal energy of a place like Kumamoto. The streets, the costumes, the laughter, and the shared love for all things spooky—this is Halloween at its finest.

Trick or Treat:

My Japanese exchange university regularly organizes events on special occasions to bring Japanese and international students together. These include excursions to fascinating places around Kumamoto, like bridges, breweries, and golden One Piece statues, several competitions to improve participants’ English language skills, and farraginous festivities celebrating special cultural holidays.

Halloween, with its colorful disguises, mysterious customs, and sweet treats, sometimes scary, sometimes not, is no exception. The Japanese people here on the island of Kyushu embrace this day enthusiastically, and Sojo University has made its own contribution to this modern tradition.

On the spookiest day of the year, I was invited to a cozy Halloween party hosted by my university at its International Learning Center. The event featured an abundance of Japanese snacks and drinks—many of which were still completely unfamiliar to me. Students and lecturers dressed up as dinosaurs, witches, and bloody knife-wielding murderers, creating a festive atmosphere.

I had interesting conversations with new people, which made the evening even more enjoyable. My costume? Gru from Despicable Me, of course. Despite my immeasurable efforts, I couldn’t secure first prize in the costume competition. Too bad! But I’m not a sore loser—most of the time, at least.

Halloween has become one of my favorite days of the year. Growing up in Germany in the 1980s and 1990s, I only experienced it as it slowly began to gain popularity in Europe.

Unfortunately, by the time German kids started trick-or-treating, I was already a little too old for it. My childhood Halloween tradition was limited to watching The Simpsons Halloween specials on TV while snacking on skull-shaped chocolates.

This year, I’m thrilled to celebrate Halloween in Japan, a country where the fascination with ghosts, spirits, and yokai is deeply ingrained in the culture. It’s been an unforgettable experience to embrace the spooky season in such a unique and meaningful way.

Street by Street:

My life here in Kumamoto primarily revolves around three main places: My home, where I mostly just sleep, work, and do laundry. My university, where I rush from one lecture to the next. And downtown, where I spend most of my free time.

Whether it’s stopping by the city hall or the post office, parting with my more or less hard-earned money in various stores, or meeting friends in cafés, restaurants, or at karaoke, the true spirit of Kumamoto thrives in the streets of its bustling city center.

It’s a lively area filled with all kinds of attractive, wondrous, and colorful establishments, and I try to visit it as often as I can, because luckily it’s only a stone’s throw from my apartment.

Kumamoto’s downtown, located directly below the famous and beautiful city castle, is centered around three covered arcades that are vibrant day and night: Kamitori, Shimotori, and Shinshigai.

These streets are lined with restaurants, drugstores, cafés, cinemas, museums, bars, konbini, bakeries, florists, hotels, and an array of small and large retailers, as well as several shopping centers.

I’ve made it my personal mission to visit as many of these places as possible during my time here and keep trying new things. After all, I don’t want to look back in the future and regret wasting this unique opportunity. While I’m here, I want to make the most of it. At least, that’s the plan.

Of course, this is easier said than done. For example, I’ve yet to visit some restaurants because I can’t figure out how to use the ticket machines, which only display Japanese characters.

That’s why I’m always grateful when friends join me, patiently explaining everything so I can press the correct buttons and handle things on my own next time. Hopefully, my Japanese will improve gradually—who knows?

While Kumamoto might not be the first city that comes to mind for tourists visiting Japan, I’m glad to have landed here. It’s an exciting city full of interesting places and nice people. Bit by bit, I’m exploring all of its charms, and it’s been a vastly rewarding adventure so far.

Barbecue and Fireworks:

The Land of the Rising Sun is not only renowned for its, let’s call it, alternative entertainment industry but also its breathtaking fireworks festivals. And one of the most stunning takes place every October in southern Kyushu, in the town of Yatsushiro in beautiful Kumamoto Prefecture.

This vibrant spectacle showcases Japan’s finest light and sound artistry, with unparalleled effects created by the country’s leading pyrotechnicians—or at least, that’s how it was advertised to potential visitors.

Intrigued, I took a crowded local train to Yatsushiro with a couple of friends, where we not only admired the dazzling night sky displays but also savored a delightful evening barbecue.

At the cozy barbecue in a local parking lot on the outskirts of Yatsushiro, nestled in a quiet neighborhood, we indulged in an array of delicious Japanese fried delicacies, sweet and salty snacks, and, for those so inclined, an abundance of cold and fruity beer-mix drinks.

During the evening, we struck up a conversation with a possibly tipsy gentleman who claimed to be a famous voice actor from Tokyo. He enthusiastically told us he had starred in iconic robot anime like Gundam. I found this really fascinating and had a pleasant chat with him, but eventually, my friends politely yet firmly ushered him on his way. Bye-bye, Ojisan, I said with a mix of amusement and relief.

The fireworks competition began at nightfall and had a Disney theme. Whether it was The Lion King, Frozen, or Aladdin, each display featured classic animation-inspired scenes, paired with matching music and spectacular explosions in every color imaginable.

Standing there, on the outskirts of a, at least to me, unknown Japanese city, surrounded by wonderful people, delicious food, and a stunning hanabi show, filled me with joy. I couldn’t stop smiling—even while waiting in the long queue at the overcrowded small train station or enduring the, let’s say, cozy ride home a couple of hours later. And I simply can’t wait to experience all the amazing more things Japan has to offer.

The Otaku Dungeon:

I realized very early on that Japanese entertainment is far superior to its Western counterpart. As a small child, German television introduced me to series like Maya the Bee, Vicky the Viking, and Heidi, which were far more heartfelt, emotional, and exciting than anything Disney and its contemporaries offered.

Of course, I loved normal cartoons too, but when East Asian classics such as Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and One Piece finally arrived in Central Europe a few years later, I found myself craving everything from the Land of the Rising Sun. I devoured anime magazines, bought shonen manga anthologies, and spent my pocket money on Japanese music CDs. An otaku was born.

When you think of otaku paradise, Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electric Town, naturally comes to mind. It’s a haven for every nerdy heart, offering everything from anime and manga to provocative figurines. However, my personal favorite store is on the other side of the city, nestled in the heart of Shibuya. The Mandarake there is somewhat hidden between a ramen restaurant and a guitar shop.

Descending the stairs into this underground otaku dungeon, I suddenly find myself surrounded by everything I truly love. The aisles overflow with movies, comics, trading cards, figurines, CDs, video games, consoles, magazines, drawing supplies, hentai, and all sorts of quirky odds and ends.

Whether it’s iconic series like Pokémon, Astro Boy, and Neon Genesis Evangelion or hidden gems like Excel Saga, Genshiken, and Eden of the East, Mandarake offers such a vast and wonderfully obscure selection that I could easily spend my life savings here—and still only scratch the surface.

The real obstacle, however, is that I’m broke. Sometimes, I wish I were obsessed enough with one series to want every piece of merchandise available. But because I have an eclectic taste and like a bit of everything, I usually find satisfaction in simply wandering through the labyrinthine aisles, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere, and drawing inspiration from the colorful characters around me.

Let’s Make Curry:

At Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I am, as you all know by know, spending a semester abroad, a two-day festival with all the trimmings is set to take place in just a few weeks. All the faculties will participate, putting on a vibrant showcase of activities. At least, that’s the plan.

The festival will feature numerous food and game stalls, a large stage with various performances, and a spectacular fireworks display. There’s even a special guest—a pop idol from Tokyo. I imagine the whole thing will feel like one of those heartwarming anime episodes where the entire school plans a festival, only for the city to be attacked by ugly alien monsters—or something along those lines.

Recently, I joined a fun and vibrant group called Sojo Buddies—a lively mix of Japanese and international students from various faculties at Sojo University. The witty group organizes exciting events in Kumamoto and beyond, plans excursions to interesting places, and occasionally meets for meals at delicious restaurants.

Since good food brings people together, we’ve decided to run a food stall at the festival, serving spicy curry and other delicacies inspired by Sri Lankan cuisine. To ensure we know what we’re doing, and to avoid making fools of ourselves at the festival, we held a group cooking session, followed by a very essential taste test—and it was a complete success.

Cooking with such an amusing group was a nice experience, even though my main contribution was aggressively breaking pasta into small pieces—just as the recipe we received instructed. In the end, we were all quite pleased with the result. I got to meet many new people, and we capped off the evening by watching a live broadcast of a local basketball team’s match.

We’re more or less confident our food stall will be a gigantic hit at the upcoming festival, and the more money we raise, the grander our after-show party at some izakaya will be. Now, we eagerly await the festival at Sojo University. Hopefully, no ugly alien monsters will decide to attack our city in the meantime.

Shake It Off:

Japan is not only known for its eye-catching fashion, delicious food, and captivating animation art but also for its frequent earthquakes of varying severity, a consequence of its geographical location. Ever since the Great Kanto Earthquake in the year 1923 and, more recently, the Tohoku Earthquake in the year 2011, both the inhabitants of this East Asian island and visitors alike have been acutely aware of the ever-present danger simmering beneath their feet.

Even the city of Kumamoto, where I am currently staying, experienced devastating earthquakes in the year 2016, which not only destroyed a bunch of city districts but also its famous landmark: The Kumamoto Castle.

As a recent resident of Kumamoto City, I felt compelled to, and also had to, attend a disaster preparedness seminar. Together with a few friends, I fulfilled this obligation at the first available opportunity. We visited a local fire station, where we learned how to act in the event of an impending disaster.

The seminar included an engaging video, hands-on simulations involving the four elements, fire, water, wind, and earth, and a Q&A session with the quite dedicated course instructor. After this experience, I feel confident in my ability to pull through should the worst occur. That said, perhaps I should also attend a seminar on surviving a zombie apocalypse—just to be fully prepared.

One key takeaway from the seminar was the importance of having a emergency bag. What should it include? A flashlight, a portable radio, a helmet, a protective hood, work gloves, a blanket, batteries, a lighter, candles, water, food, instant noodles, a can opener, a knife, clothing, cash, and a first-aid kit.

Having gained some expertise in disaster preparedness, I even found myself featured on Japanese television, sharing my thoughts on this crucial topic. Although I’ve grown accustomed to the frequent, minor tremors here, the specter of the legendary Nankai megathrust earthquake looms large in everyone’s mind. But I wouldn’t mind if it held off for a while longer…

Autumn Flower:

The sweltering heat of summer is giving way to a cool breeze. Trees begin to change color, and the fields gradually empty. In the supermarket, the fresh harvest awaits eager shoppers. These days, I love strolling through the streets of my new city, searching for unexplored paths—whether in the heart of bustling downtown or along the quiet outskirts of the suburbs.

Sometimes, I encounter a lazy cat basking in the sun, other times, I hop over small streams or stumble upon a hidden café, shrine, or candy store. Kumamoto feels like a treasure chest, waiting to be discovered. Lucy Maud Montgomery once wrote: I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. I feel you, sister.

To hone our creative skills, the Japanese Arts Masters Club, of which I have recently become a member, organized a cozy walk to a nearby field with a small river meandering through it. Surrounded by rolling mountains and lush green trees, the area felt like a slice of paradise.

The vibrant Red Spider Lily, also known as the Autumn Flower and beloved in Japan, blooms here—its striking petals making it an ideal subject for sketching. We carefully selected a few of the prettiest specimens, unearthed them gently with their roots still intact, and brought them back to our classroom in small containers. There, the beautiful plants immediately became our models for drawing.

Armed with knives-sharpened pencils, soft watercolors, and a specific style in my mind, I set out to immortalize one of the flowers on thick paper. The result exceeded my expectations, giving me confidence that I might soon be ready to attempt my first painting in the style of traditional Japanese art.

I haven’t decided yet on the motif for this creative milestone, but several ideas are already taking shape. I’ve even crafted my first small canvas—it’s waiting to be brought to life. But all in due time. Everything at its own pace. Because that’s one of the things I’ve already learnt here in my time in Japan: Good things take time—and it’s very important to always keep this in mind.

The Art of Cheap Eating:

Japan is not just the land of the rising sun and smiles—it’s also a nation of endless culinary delights. Sushi, ramen, sashimi… If you travel to this easternmost corner of the world hoping to shed a few pounds thanks to fresh fish and smaller portions, you may find yourself instead in a land of milk and honey teeming with a thousand delectable treats.

I embarked on an extensive, and extremely delicious, food journey to sample the country’s varied cuisine and step outside the proverbial box, discovering lesser-known delicacies that are especially rare in the West. Or in other words: I try to eat as much different Japanese food as possible while I’m here. Because it’s simply the best.

The result? A vibrant potpourri of Japanese delights that regularly fills my mouth. Whether dining in cheap fast-food joints, upscale restaurants, or cozy bars, my palate and I indulge at every opportunity. Tempura, yakitori, okonomiyaki—nothing is left undiscovered or untasted during my trip to this gastronomic wonderland.

However, there’s one small catch: Japan isn’t exactly known for being a budget-friendly country, especially when it comes to food. Anyone who has stepped into a random Japanese supermarket and seen the absurd prices of perfectly polished apples, bananas, and watermelons knows exactly what I mean. Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t bottomless—yet.

So, how do I survive as a broke-ass student in a nation of overpriced food? Do I subsist on instant ramen, dreaming of biting into a juicy piece of karaage? Thankfully, no. The secret to enjoying delicious food without going broke lies in patience—and in waiting for the legendary man with the stickers.

Every night, this supermarket savior appears, wandering the aisles of bentos, sushi, and pizzas, affixing small discount badges that slash prices in half. Moments later, a ravenous mob descends upon these bargains—and if you’re quick enough, you can snag yourself a cheap and tasty dinner. Congratulations, you’ve mastered the formidable art of dining in Japan on a very tight budget!

Painting Is Poetry:

When I showed the last art teacher who had to put up with me my sketches of naked bodies, which I had more or less painstakingly created in the months prior, he said to me, and I am not exaggerating here, that they were the worst works he had ever seen. In. His. Entire. Life. This man certainly knew no mercy.

But not only was he right, his words also confirmed something I had long suspected: I was better suited for digital art than analog art. I even resigned myself to the likelihood of failing his course due to my lack of talent, a fate only avoided when a tipsy fellow student intervened. She sent him a borderline humorous email, miraculously persuading him to let me pass.

Thanks to this pivotal experience, I would have given up the marvelous craft of pen and paper forever if I hadn’t met two inspiring girls in Japan who invited me to drop by their art club. I tried to explain my complete lack of drawing skills, but before I knew it, I was standing in a room filled with paints, brushes, and canvases.

The teachers, bustling around the space, promptly handed me pens, sketch pads, and art books, urging me to create my first painting. I met other nice students, drank some black coffee, and, almost by accident, became part of the Japanese Arts Masters Club. It all happened so quickly and I’m not quite sure if I’ll fit in here. But it can’t hurt to try it out, right?

My first tasks are to study the basics of Japanese drawing and to learn how to create my own art utensils. Once I’ve accomplished that, I’ll start sketching plants and eventually choose a motif to bring to life on paper. With this, nothing stands in the way of my new career as a painter.

Soon, my masterpieces will adorn the walls of the world’s greatest galleries, hanging proudly alongside Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí. Visitors will marvel at my creations, shed tears of awe, and collapse with joy. And to think, all of this began with joining the art club. Or, as the modern Japanese mangaka Imigimuru aptly put it: This art club has a problem! And that problem… is me.

Design Is Everything:

The other day, I asked myself whether I had ever consciously decided to become a designer. The answer was a perplexed shake of the head from one of the little men that haunt my mind. Like much of my life, it was more by chance than sheer will to succeed that I found myself on the path of those who make a living from creative work—or at least try to.

Did I have the potential to choose alternative career paths? Perhaps. Did I make use of it? No. Why not? Maybe because I’ve always been more comfortable with subjectivity than objectivity. Does that mean I’m swimming in money, with my art hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York? Yes, no, maybe? Hello? Hello?!

If it weren’t for my almost success-allergic life decisions, I wouldn’t be where I am today: The Department of Design at Japan’s Sojo University in Kumamoto. Not far from the main campus, creative minds, and also me, work under one roof with art students on illustrations, advertising campaigns, products, typography, sculptures, 3D and app design, interfaces, and paintings in every shape and color.

This is where I’ll spend most of my time in Japan, trying to channel as much visionary power as possible into my work so that I don’t feel too out of place when it comes time to present my results alongside my fellow students in the University’s very own art gallery in downtown.

We learn to see the world through fresh eyes, engaging all five senses to explore and create. By paying attention to the everyday, we uncover new perspectives and develop unique ways of expressing ideas. Through trial and error, we shape our creativity, finding inspiration in the ordinary and transforming it into the extraordinary.

This is a place to grow at our own pace, driven by curiosity and a love for discovery. I’m excited to see how much I can learn from this environment and how well I can complement my skills with impressions from a different world. Perhaps this journey will shape me into a designer whose work might one day hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Reborn as a Student at a Japanese University:

Guess who is now officially enrolled at Sojo University in the beautiful city of Kumamoto? That’s right—this guy. Founded shortly after the Second World War, the academy evolved from a technical high school and now offers courses in art, architecture, and various sciences.

I ended up at the famous Faculty of Design, where they teach graphic, illustration, typography, photography, video, and 3D, among other subjects. Since I need to earn a minimum number of credits to complete my semester abroad and have no idea what to expect from the lectures, I’ve enrolled in nearly all the courses offered to me. I’ll narrow them down in a couple of weeks based on what I enjoy most.

Sojo University boasts a konbini, several canteens, and even its own hairdresser. There’s also an international learning center where students from around the world can interact with each other and with Japanese classmates.

My first day here felt like stepping into one of those generic school animes. Curious people bustled everywhere, J-pop played in the cafeteria, and inspiring posters covered in kanji adorned the walls.

Interestingly, I am the only exchange student in my faculty. All my lectures are in Japanese, but the professors and students go out of their way to communicate with me through ambitious English, animated hand gestures, and a variety of translation apps.

Initially, I was quite worried about fitting in here. I’m twice the age of most other students, don’t speak their language at all, and only know the Japanese school system from fantastic tales where usually something supernatural happens in the first chapter.

However, my fears have not materialized. The initial shyness of my classmates quickly faded. They either find me personally, or at least the country I come from, fascinating. They’re eager to show me everything they think I’ll find new and exciting and help me navigate the social, organizational, and, especially, communication challenges of my exotic life in Japan. I believe I’ll have a great time at Sojo University—or at least I hope so.

A New Language, a New Life:

As I prepare to spend the foreseeable future in Japan and am passionate about the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun, it feels only natural to learn the language. And where better to embark on this journey, one I hope will ultimately broaden my intellectual horizons, than in the heart of Japan? Exactly.

With that in mind, I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library in the vibrant international district of Roppongi. Armed with textbooks, a notepad, and a pen, I began learning my third language after German and English, immersing myself in a world I had chosen for myself. As Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote: The limits of my language mean the limits of my world. Amen, brother.

To make this process both efficient and enjoyable, I decided to invest in the みんなの日本語 textbooks, purchased from the 書泉ブックタワー in Akihabara.

This set of books has been an invaluable resource, guiding me through the intricacies of Japanese: learning the hiragana, katakana, and kanji scripts, expanding my vocabulary, mastering grammar, and picking up useful phrases for everyday life.

Like any ambitious student of Japanese, my journey begins with the first alphabet: Hiragana. The word literally means flowing or simple kana, making it the counterpart to the more complex kanji, which no human in the world truly masters because they’re so difficult to learn.

Hiragana and katakana are both kana systems, and with a few exceptions, each mora in the Japanese language is represented by a character or digraph in these sets. Translating words from the Latin alphabet into hiragana is relatively straightforward—I just have to follow the character table consistently.

However, two challenges arise: Navigating tricky rules and knowing when certain words are transliterated not into hiragana but into the more Western-oriented katakana. Mastering hiragana is the easiest hurdle on this linguistic adventure. Once I tackle my first kanji, I’ll look back at the simplicity of hiragana with nostalgia. But let’s not dwell on that future just yet.

City of Bears:

Welcome to Kumamoto, a city nestled in the westernmost part of Japan on the beautiful island of Kyushu. Known as the City of Bears, this charming locale will be my cozy home for the next six months as I embark on my exciting semester abroad at the Faculty of Design at the private and prestigious Sojo University.

Here, I hope to refine my skills in typography, illustration, and computer graphics—though, of course, I sometimes wonder if there’s much left to improve. Waiting for laughs. I’m staying in a dormitory with other exchange students from around the world, about twenty minutes from the university’s main campus and another ten minutes from the creative art campus.

From my apartment, located in the higher part of the city, I can see the iconic Kumamoto Castle. Renowned far beyond Japan’s borders, the building sits majestically atop a hill, surrounded by a lush green park and beautifully illuminated with colorful lights in the evenings.

At the heart of Kumamoto lies the lively downtown area, anchored by the Kamitori and Shimotori shopping streets. These bustling arcades are lined with cafés, konbini, book stores, museums, karaoke spots, bars, restaurants, bathhouses, cinemas, boutiques, izakaya, barbers, teahouses, galleries, and countless other shops. Whether it’s day or night, there’s always something thrilling happening in the city center.

I can’t wait to spend the next months exploring its many offerings and getting to know its vibrant culture. Upon arriving in Kumamoto, I couldn’t help but feel like I had stepped into my own Persona adventure.

Much like the game’s protagonists, I find myself in a foreign Japanese city, at a new school, and with a few months to navigate unfamiliar surroundings, forge friendships, and soak up as much as I can—though saving the world might be a stretch.

I’m determined to make the most of this incredible opportunity, collecting unforgettable memories and experiences along the way. After all, I know how rare and special this chance is, and I plan to savor every moment of it.

Their Eyes Were Watching Girls:

When I’m not enjoying the crème de la crème of the musical entertainment world, characterized by Italian operas, French chansons, and South American jazz, I immerse myself in the underground bunkers of Japanese idols. From internationally renowned classics like AKB48 to the nostalgic sounds of Morning Musume and short-lived Eurodance groups such as SweetS, D&D, and Folder 5, I know, listen to, and love them all.

These groups, a wild mix of personalities, sing about love, friendship, and emotions, accompanied by cheerfully poppy melodies that barely conceal the melancholic undertones—cries for help aimed at suicidal schoolgirls and kinky hikikomori.

My current favorite idol band is Sakurazaka46, which emerged from Keyakizaka46 with its center, Yurina Hirate. They are some kind of sister group to Nogizaka46 and Hinatazaka46 and a rival to AKB48, NMB48, and SKE48.

Sakurazaka46 briefly attracted international media attention a few years ago when their predecessor group wore outfits resembling the Schutzstaffel military uniforms of Nazi Germany during a concert. This sparked controversy, and the record company had to issue a formal apology.

Despite, or perhaps because of, this incident, fans remained loyal to the group. Today, they call themselves Buddies—and I am really proud to count myself among them.

Because I’m a huge admirer of Sakurazaka46, I couldn’t resist visiting an exhibition in Shibuya as part of their latest single release. The exhibit featured personal messages from members like Karin Fujiyoshi, Rina Matsuda, and Hikaru Morita, along with behind-the-scenes photos, stage outfits, music documentaries, and other smelly fans to mingle with.

On a personal note, I had to process the bittersweet news that Rina Uemura and Fuyuka Saito were using the exhibition as a platform to announce their graduation. But as a connoisseur of Japanese idol culture, farewells are part of the experience. Speaking of farewells, does anyone know what Atsuko Maeda is up to these days?

Some People Walk in the Rain, Others Just Get Wet:

Nothing makes me happier than walking through the rainy streets of Tokyo. After the hot days behind us, with concrete and bones alike melting, I wanted to cheer naked and weep with joy at the sight of the first gray cloud creeping over our heads.

The sidewalks are lined with dancing umbrellas, some black, some white, most without any colors, but I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to cower. I don’t want to protect myself from the drops that timidly, then stormily, splash down on us.

For the first time since arriving in this city, I don’t wither away when I bravely step under the open sky. I can finally breathe again. Finally live again. Finally savor my existence—if only for a very brief moment.

The rain lures me into the back alleys of Ueno. I stand on a bridge, the clattering carriages of the Ginza Line rattling below, making their way to the next stations. The parks are empty, people hop around under the awnings of storefronts.

I feel closer to Tokyo than I have in a long time. Away from the must-see places, I find myself at an unfamiliar corner—between a pharmacy, a shoemaker, and a bus stop. It smells of ramen, cars, and opportunities.

A group of yellow-capped children waddles past me in their sailor uniforms. They stare at me. One of them begins to wave and greet me, the others join in, a chorus of Hello! sounds. I say Hello! back. We are all a little happier now.

I wish for the rain to dissolve my body, for me to become one with this city, right here, right now. I don’t care if I perish forever. I want this place at the end of the world to absorb me and never let me go.

Tokyo is my religion, my destiny, my God. If my soul will only find peace when I can proudly proclaim that I am Tokyo and Tokyo is me, then so be it. The sky shifts, trembling blue, red, and black before me, as if watching anxiously to see if the man-made spot of land beyond it will accept my humble sacrifice.

But on this day, the love of my life forgoes my gift, leaving me out in the rain. Perhaps Tokyo graciously wants to grant me a few more days within it before calling me to it forever.

The Emperor’s Shrine:

Tokyo is a grab bag of emotions and experiences. Every turn in a new direction brings a fresh adventure and another story to tell. I love wandering through the bustling streets, shops, and cafés of the Japanese capital.

Yet, I am also grateful for moments spent in more or less sacred places scattered across the spacious city. Surrounded by green trees and towering gates, these temples and shrines serve different gods and spirits.

The smaller and more hidden they are, the happier I am to find them, feeling as if I’m the first person in ages to rediscover them. I conveniently ignore the burning candles and fresh offerings that suggest others have been there before me.

Sometimes, though, I seek the enlightenment and support of truly powerful energies. Because I need all the assistance I can get to bring my messy life at least somewhat back on track. This is what led me to the famous Meiji Shrine in Shibuya, nestled between the fashion district of Harajuku and the serene Yoyogi Park.

The shrine, built in the early nineteen-twenties and dedicated to the deified spirits of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, is divided into two sections: Naien and Gaien. Although the original structure was destroyed in the air raids of World War II, it was rebuilt in the nineteen-fifties through public donations. And it’s absolutely stunning.

Though I’m an atheist and think about gods the way I think about unseasoned food and watery coffee, I still tossed a few yen into the donation box, clapped my hands, bowed a few times, and even bought a wooden plaque, or Ema, to write down a few wishes and leave a small part of myself there.

As I strolled slowly through the shrine, watching traditionally dressed miko and fashion-forward trendsetters pass by, I was reminded once again of how much I love Japan’s fluent blend of tradition and modernity. In special places like these, I temporarily let go of my atheism, enjoying the thought of a hidden world intertwined with our own—if only just a little.

Tower of My Heart:

Though the Skytree has been a colorful rival towering over Tokyo’s skyline for years now, when it comes to captivating the eyes of residents, tourists, and the occasional bird, the Tokyo Tower remains the landmark of this East Asian metropolis for me.

In how many films, documentaries, and anime series have I marveled at this red-and-orange wonder of architectural significance, serving as the backdrop to tales of great love and even greater destruction? Seeing this colorful tribute to the Eiffel Tower always makes my heart beat faster. No journey to the Land of the Rising Sun would be complete without cozying up to the magical metal of this man-made giant.

The communications boom of the fifties prompted the Japanese government to construct a large broadcasting tower to relay information throughout the Kanto region. Additionally, amid the post-war economic recovery, Japan sought a monument to symbolize its resurgence from World War II—one of the most devastated nations rising again.

The resulting Tokyo Tower gained international fame through mentions in anime and manga like Magic Knight Rayearth, Doraemon, Tenchi Muyo!, Revue Starlight, Please Save My Earth, Cardcaptor Sakura, Digimon, Detective Conan, and Death Note, becoming a symbol of Japan and its eclectic capital for weebs around the world.

Stepping out of the elevator and onto the observation deck, I see the lights of Minato, Shibuya, and Meguro below. The Rainbow Bridge glows with vibrant colors. Around me, tourists fight for the best selfies, capturing themselves with the sprawling metropolis as their backdrop.

Here I am, in the heart of the one and only Tokyo Tower, which graces the pastel backgrounds of Naoko Takeuchi’s popular masterpiece Sailor Moon—the source of my lifelong love for it since childhood. If it were legally, physically, and biologically possible, I would outright marry Tokyo Tower and have lots of cute, little mini towers with it—but I’d probably be deported just for trying.

It’s Hot in Tokyo:

If there’s one unsettling truth I hadn’t anticipated, it’s that Tokyo will become a blazing inferno this fall with a single goal in mind: To kill me. The moment I step out of my air-conditioned hotel, I’m transformed into a soaked creature, my sweaty silhouette a testament to a body in agony.

All for wanting a little sightseeing in Shibuya, Akihabara, and Shimokitazawa, only to be punished by some evil god, spirit, or yokai wielding the concentrated power of a thousand suns. I was completely unprepared for this unfair battle with climate change, which ambushed me along the way and turned my joyful journey into an odyssey in the blink of an eye.

I have to plan my daily trips through this burning concrete jungle down to the very minute—though, of course, that’s hardly possible. If I spend even a second too long away from the air-conditioned havens of subway stations, department stores, and art museums almost sealed off from the outside world, I liquefy into a dark, sweaty, and miserable mess that not even the iciest drinks from the omnipresent vending machines can save.

Japan wants me, and anyone else brave, or stupid, enough to face the open air on these diabolical days, to know who’s in charge—and no portable fan, mobile sunshade, or colorful popsicle can spare us from that harsh reality.

The longer I endure this endless game of hide-and-seek with the sun, the clearer it becomes: There’s no point trying to strategize against nature’s brutal counterattack on humanity. My time here in Tokyo is finite, and I’m not going to let a giant fireball in the sky ruin my trip.

Stepping out of a Family Mart onto the midday streets of Asakusa, I begin to melt at the first step, as the beloved konbini jingle morphs into the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my boiling head. Fuck you, sun, I think as a puddle of sweat forms beneath my feet, and I slowly drag myself toward the next temple, shrine, or cute maid café for a few photos. I will survive—hopefully.

Wind’s Howling:

As I leave the grimy swamps of Velen behind and stride through Novigrad’s gates, a city brimming with possibilities opens up before me. Cheeky rascals dart through the winding alleys of this bustling harbor metropolis, under the watchful gaze of the Eternal Fire that looms over its inhabitants.

Banks, brothels, and shops of craftsmen line the streets, and I catch the sounds of singing and laughter from countless pubs. I head toward the Rosemary and Thyme tavern to meet my old friends Dandelion and Zoltan, hoping to moisten my dry throat before I continue my journey to the freezing Isles of Skellige to find the most important person in my sad life: Ciri.

There are few video games that linger in my mind even years later. Games that left an enormous impression, that made me love and appreciate their characters, whose music still echoes in my ears, and whose vivid scenes play out in my mind’s eye.

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is one of those epic titles. As Geralt of Rivia, I crept through dark, goblin-infested caves reeking of decay, fought off monsters, specters, and whoresons, and wandered through lost worlds that hinted at the end of our own. And when I didn’t feel like doing my duty as a student of the Wolf, I played cards, got piss-drunk, and chased after fair maidens across Redania’s seedy beds.

Sometimes, I crave the chance to dive into a gritty fantasy world and live beyond the bounds of good and evil. Games like Skyrim, Dragon’s Dogma, and Divinity: Original Sin serve as a unique form of escapism. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is my personal favorite—a vivid universe where I can fully immerse myself.

Based on the books by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, the adventure is a rollercoaster of bloody encounters, humorous moments, and tender scenes. I’d give anything to erase my fond memories of that wondrous journey and walk through Novigrad’s gates for the first time once more, in search of peace, happiness, and the occasional fair maid.

Where the Trendy Things Are:

Of course, Tokyo has its ordinary side, its normal, even boring aspects. Men in dark suits, towering walls of skyscrapers, and loud, crowded subways. But then, I step through a door and suddenly I find myself in a sugary Tokyo, where everything around me is glossy, fluffy, and overwhelmingly gaudy.

When it comes to fashion in all its glorious shapes, colors, and magnificence, the Far Eastern metropolis of Tokyo is a vast and vibrant universe, full of small and massive clothing stores, hidden vintage shops, and independent galleries. Old stores close, and new ones sprout like mushrooms in an endless cycle. It’s nearly impossible to stay fully up-to-date.

What’s even more intriguing than just keeping pace with fashion is the experience of wandering through Tokyo’s diverse stores myself. Especially in Harajuku, Tokyo’s iconic district where styles are created, mixed, and discarded faster than I can say kawaii, the sheer variety of colors adds warmth to the bustling crowds of this megacity.

Strikingly printed sweaters, pants, and bags adorned with all kinds of cute accessories fill the alleyways. Style-conscious schoolgirls cast off their dull sailor uniforms after the bell rings and slip into the latest trends they’ve picked up from stores like Nadia, Honey Salon, and Love Drug, ready to showcase them in the lit streets.

Labels such as Milklim, Kirby, and Jóuetie are all the rage among trendsetters in the metropolis. These can be effortlessly paired with established brands like A Bathing Ape, Comme des Garçons, and Billionaire Boys Club. Harajuku is a true Land of Cockaigne. Every step through this magical neighborhood feels like another adventure waiting to unfold.

One moment, Sailor Moon gazes at me from the shelves, the next, I’m standing in a soft toy wonderland, and suddenly, there’s a candy paradise around me. Tokyo is a vibrant wonderland, and nowhere is this more evident than in its peculiar stores, none more dazzling than those found in Harajuku.

The Cozy Neighborhood:

There is no place in Tokyo that feels homier than Shimokitazawa. The alleyways are lined with cafés, second-hand shops, and record stores. A few years ago, the neighborhood in Setagaya was considered a hipster haven, but it has since become a meeting point for those who find Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara too crowded, too loud, and frankly, too mainstream.

Visitors who make their way here are seeking slow moments in contrast to the otherwise hectic pace of life. Shimokitazawa smells of pastries, jazz plays softly in the background, and the staff are dressed as if they’ve stepped straight out of fashion magazines like Popeye, Brutus, and Fudge.

At the start of the millennium, the Setagaya City Council released plans to redevelop a large portion of Shimokitazawa, located in the southwestern corner of the Kitazawa district, which included the construction of several high-rise buildings and the extension of a highway through the area.

The narrow, winding streets and small alleyways, cherished by residents and visitors alike as part of Shimokitazawa’s appeal, have made this plan controversial, with some viewing it as degrading and overly commercialized. A decade ago, Shimokitazawa Station was restructured, sparking major changes deep in the heart of this charming neighborhood.

As I sit in a bookstore, watching passersby come and go, I sip my coffee and nibble on the mini chocolate pretzels that came with it. To improve my Japanese, I’ve picked up some textbooks and flip through pages filled with hiragana, katakana, and kanji. If I could move to Tokyo, I’d probably settle in Shimokitazawa.

Then I’d sit in this bookstore every day, drinking coffee, snacking on mini chocolate pretzels, and learning Japanese for the rest of my life. Banana Yoshimoto wrote in her book Moshi Moshi: When I considered the destruction of the earth, I felt I’d deal with it when I saw it happening, but when I thought of losing Shimokitazawa, I felt real fear.

The Electric Town:

There’s probably no place in the world that makes weebs’ hearts beat faster than Akihabara. Enthusiasts of Japanese pop culture will find everything they could dream of in this district, known far beyond the borders of Tokyo. From anime, manga, video games, and J-pop CDs to books, trading cards, figures, model kits, cosplay costumes, and even hentai, it’s a paradise for otaku.

But Akihabara isn’t called the Electronic City for nothing. For those less into nerdy pop culture, it’s a haven for tech lovers, offering everything from cell phones and computers to spare parts and gadgets. Akihabara is a phenomenon that completely consumes everyone who enters it.

Historically, Akihabara was located near one of Edo’s city gates, serving as a gateway between the city and northwestern Japan. This made it home to many craftsmen, merchants, and samurai. Since its opening in 1890, Akihabara Station became a hub for freight traffic, fostering the growth of a vegetable and fruit market.

By the 1920s, the station saw heavy passenger traffic as it opened to public transport. After World War II, the district’s black market thrived in the absence of strong government control, transforming Akihabara into a bustling market town. By the 1930s, it evolved into a center for household electronics, solidifying its reputation in this niche.

Walking through Akihabara’s bustling streets, I’m greeted by big-eyed cartoon characters with even bigger breasts. Girls in brightly colored maid outfits shout cheerfully, offering flyers for themed cafés. The air is filled with the scent of plastic, tea, and sweat.

In the stores, young women and middle-aged men alike browse the latest issues of Weekly Shonen Jump, Ribon, and Ciao. Each floor is a universe unto itself—some filled with slot machines, others with art supplies, and hidden ones with cute sex toys. Once I’ve immersed myself in Akihabara’s fantastic anime, manga, and video game world, I may never find my way out again.

Open Your Eyes:

As with every nineties nerd, The Legend of Zelda is one of the game series that has accompanied me since childhood. My real entry into the series was the third installment, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on the Super Nintendo. I played this adventure so many times that I knew every area by heart.

Thanks to a questionably legal cheat module I picked up at a flea market, I squeezed every last bit of life out of the game. It allowed me to have all the items from the start and sneak past the otherwise stubborn guards on that rainy, fateful day without even beginning the obligatory castle tour. I’m sure Nintendo wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of rebellion.

The stories in The Legend of Zelda games are typically the same: A silent knight tries to save a kingdom overrun by dark forces and, ideally, wins the heart of a beautiful princess in the process. Since this premise alone wouldn’t draw anyone away from the comfort of their couch, the series thrives on tricky puzzles, quirky characters, and an enchanting world full of exploration.

Of course, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Nintendo 64 was the game that truly immortalized the series for me. A vast 3D world to freely explore, paired with assets that literally blew my mind. And following that one, Majora’s Mask became my all-time favorite.

For me, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on the Switch is the logical progression from the first Nintendo 64 installment. The world is even bigger, the puzzles even trickier, and Zelda even prettier. There’s probably no other game where I enjoy aimlessly wandering, just to see what I’ll discover next.

And I always find something—a deserted beach, a quaint village, a mysterious labyrinth. I only wish there had been a few real dungeons and larger cities with more inhabitants. Running into the same old shrines and stables got a bit tiresome after a while. Nevertheless, Breath of the Wild is an experience that will forever hold a special place in my heart.

The Nostalgic Paradise:

Tokyo is much more than just Shibuya, Akihabara, and Harajuku. If I want to experience different places than the usual tourists, I have to go to places that are less well-known but no less exciting. For example, Odaiba, the artificial island in Tokyo Bay, which is a popular entertainment and shopping area for locals.

Before 1996, Odaiba was purely a business district. The Japanese economy was at one of its peaks and the island was to become the model of futuristic living. In total, the construction of the island cost over 10 billion US dollars. But the bubble burst in 1991, an event the Japanese called Kakaku Hakai. Half a decade later, the area was mostly abandoned.

After the renovation, Odaiba became a thriving entertainment and shopping center with all kinds of restaurants, stores, and amusement arcades. A giant Gundam statue looms over visitors, who usually arrive in the evening, and there is no end of comics, collectible figures, and knick-knacks. Odaiba is a nostalgic paradise that visitors to the Japanese capital shouldn’t miss.

The Daiba Itchome Shotengai, which is located in the middle of a shopping center and seems to be from a bygone era, is particularly worth a visit. Coming here is like traveling back in time. Many families, as well as some nerds, take the opportunity to experience exactly that, right there.

When I enter the shopping street, I feel as if I’ve been teleported to a fantasy memory. There are old slot machines, pinball machines, and pachinko machines. Posters of idols from the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands hang on the walls. I recognize the faces of Yumi Matsutoya, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Perfume.

The shelves are crammed with food and bric-a-brac. There are sweets, ice cream, and chewing gum. But also plushies, toy cars, and colorful printed socks. Anime and manga everywhere. I can catch goldfish at one stand, play Mario Kart at the next, and a ghost house awaits me a few meters away. If I died here and now, I wouldn’t even be angry.

A Journey Into the Past:

Tokyo, once known as Edo, began as a small, insignificant dump. It only grew into the most important city in Japan when Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third feudal ruler after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, built a castle there in 1590.

If I’m looking to explore beyond the hottest fashion trends, tastiest food varieties, and cutest schoolgirls in Tokyo, beyond Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara, then Asakusa is the place for me.

Not only is it home to the hotel where I’m staying, but it also hosts Sensoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the city. For a long time, Asakusa was known as an entertainment district, home to kabuki and rakugo theaters.

Asakusa has a past I could still sense here and there. After the Meiji Restoration, the modern entertainment industry began to take root, with Western theaters and cinemas emerging. However, after World War II, Asakusa’s popularity as an entertainment hub waned, with districts like Shinjuku rising to prominence.

Today, in addition to Sensoji, Asakusa is primarily known for the Nakamise shopping promenade and the annual Shinto festival, Sanja Matsuri. I also found many delicious traditional restaurants around the temple, where I could grill and season my own food, as well as numerous pachinko halls where I could test my luck.

This enormous metropolis on the other side of the world has a deeply traditional side. And every walk through Asakusa is also a journey into the past. Just a step out of one of the bustling shopping streets, and I’ll find myself in the middle of a small forest, an old temple complex, or surrounded by lovingly crafted shrines.

I can only imagine the small and grand spectacles that have taken place at Sensoji over the past thousand years. Despite all the colorful anime, manga, and video games that I typically associate with Japan, I feel surprisingly grounded and calm here. Perhaps I should visit such holy and magical places more often.

That Could Have Been Us, But You Don’t Care:

For many years now, I wanted nothing to do with German culture. I switched all my consumption habits to English and looked down contemptuously on anyone still crawling through the oozy cesspool of German-language entertainment because they didn’t know any better.

For me, German-dubbed TV shows were proof of bottomless stupidity. German novels fell into one of two categories: Cheesy crime junk set on the Baltic coast, or coming-of-age ‘my-mother-is-an-alcoholic-and-I-just-want-to-fuck‘ bullshit. As for German music, I wanted to hear, haha, nothing about it—just the thought of the whole Schlager-pop-Deutschrap crap made me want to vomit.

Now that I’m older, wiser, and totally at peace with myself (#IWish), I’ve come to finally realize that I can’t tear myself away from my German roots, no matter how much, for whatever reason, I wished I could. I need the German language. I love the German language. I don’t want to reject it. Its systematic harshness is simply divine.

And the German language is not just another random dialect on this earth, it’s a shared identity between me and those who use it. I’ve learned that the German language and its accompanying culture can inspire me in ways, especially on a deep, intrinsic level, that no other vernacular can.

So now, I actively seek out people who express their feelings, thoughts, and hopes as authentically as possible in my mother tongue, using it in creative ways, especially in music. Artists like Paula Hartmann, Berq, and Lotte give me a cozy sense of home with their lyrics, even when I’m standing on the other side of the world.

My latest discovery is Liska. Her songs are genuinely emotional without descending into cheesiness, and they resonate with me through various feelings and experiences. German-language music hasn’t been this interesting since Juli, Wir sind Helden, and the very, very, very early days of Silbermond.

Center of My World:

When I think of Japan, I picture the bustling intersection at the heart of Shibuya. As the traffic lights at each corner finally turn green, crowds of uniformed salarymen, laughing schoolgirls, and amazed tourists stream toward one another, briefly merging into a homogeneous mass before dispersing back into their daily routines.

On my first visit to the Land of the Rising Sun, halfway across the globe, the very first place I consciously visited was this iconic landmark in the middle of Tokyo. I took the train straight from the airport to Shibuya, met a few friendly people there, and found myself not only in the center of Japan, but in the center of my world.

Due to the anticipation of the 2020 Olympic Games and their underwhelming presentation a year later, the popular district at the heart of Japan’s capital has undergone significant transformation in the recent decade to appeal to both locals and visitors. I became most aware of this with the redesign of the city’s famous Shibuya 109 logo, which sits prominently atop a fashion-savvy shopping center.

The more such signposts change, the more I realize that time is moving on helplessly and doesn’t care about my nostalgic feelings. But maybe that’s a good thing. After all, change is life and the more Shibuya develops, the less I have to worry about its future.

As I stand at the edge of the intersection, I see the red traffic lights ahead, rising above the crowd on the opposite side, and the models advertising clothes, food, and phone contracts on massive screens. I hear the voices of those around me, the eager motorcade, and the man on a platform shouting into the crowd with a megaphone.

I smell a mix of expensive perfume and cheap deodorant, taste the green tea I’m carrying in a plastic bottle, and brace myself to feel the bodies of hundreds of people. Then, the moment comes. Red turns to green. I step forward, becoming one with Shibuya, Tokyo, and Japan—neither for the first time nor the last.

All the World’s a Stage:

When Hikari is thrust onto the recently set up stage of a seemingly innocent chamber play, fate strikes a desperate blow against the most stubborn and dangerous form of conservatism—the one powered by pure fear of being alone. The audience demands change before it is suffocated by the dreariness of the powerful. Fresh blood must pave the way for a new future.

Few of the actors suspect that the light of hope conceals a story of self-sacrifice that transcends any level of human friendship. The bright star in the sky seems within reach, but whoever touches it in the end must live on with the possible burden of drifting apart from the ones they love.

Both strangers and friends sometimes ask about my favorite anime. Then I proudly list widely known classics like Neon Genesis Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, and Ghost in the Shell. After all, these titles suggest what kind of anime I prefer and where my roots lie in this sometimes condemned Japanese art form.

I also secretly hope this keeps me from being labeled a complete weeb if I omit that I also enjoyed series like Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, and Eromanga Sensei—for various reasons.

However, one of my all-time favorite anime is, and remains, Revue Starlight by Tomohiro Furukawa—because it is simply perfect from start to finish.

Revue Starlight follows a motley group of friendly schoolgirls from a renowned theater academy who secretly battle each other underground to become the star of their personal stage in life. When the lazy Karen’s lost childhood friend suddenly appears in class, it triggers the healing of a world whose progress has come to a standstill.

Everything about Revue Starlight is exceptional. The characters are fantastic, the animation style is striking, and the music is so good that I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat for days. It’s a shame that Revue Starlight is only known to a few hardcore fans. I sincerely hope you watch it one day and celebrate it as passionately as I do.

Journey to the East:

The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. Am I running away from myself, or am I simply longing for another world that will make me love my own again? Those who share my destination feel understood only from afar.

I stifle my fear of the unknown with the certainty that I’ve chosen it over the comforting arms of monotony on purpose. After all, standing still is death, and death will come soon enough. It seems only logical to sacrifice time with people I like for the possibility of uncovering white spots on my personal map. So, I close my eyes and wait for the moment when the doors to a strange universe open for me.

Before I finally begin my semester abroad in the Japanese coastal city of Kumamoto on Kyushu as a student of the renowned Sojo University in October, I plan to spend a few days in Tokyo.

It’s been over ten years since I last visited this enchanted metropolis at the edge of the world, and I can’t wait to aimlessly wander through the wonderous temples of Shibuya, the cheerful bars of Shinjuku, and the farraginous manga stores of Akihabara to see what has changed in the last decade. I’ve booked a room in a modest hotel in Asakusa and will set out from there, day and night, to explore both the bustling streets and the narrow alleyways nearby and beyond.

Having already lived in Tokyo and visited cities like Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama, I feel prepared for the biggest culture shocks and can focus on seeking new experiences and adventures—hopefully beyond the typical tourist attractions. The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home.

That place is Tokyo, a man-made melting pot of diverse cultures where all my escapist dreams, hopes, and fantasies converge. May I find even a fraction of my expectations between the lives of millions of people. I hope to return home with new ideas, goals, and visions. Perhaps I’ll even meet myself over there, on the other side of the world.

Goodbye Augsburg:

Exactly one year ago, I moved to Augsburg. I wanted not only to be closer to my university but also to the people I had spent most of my time with since starting my studies. The city in the far south of Germany welcomed me with open arms, gradually drawing me into its most remote corners thanks to the warmth of various friendly faces.

I wandered through vivid house parties, colorful music festivals, and boozy riverside gatherings, made myself comfortable in cozy bars, and spent my nights with like-minded souls. No matter where I ended up at the end of the day, I was always surrounded by people whose true love for the present moment seemed boundless.

Now, my self-imposed fate is once again pulling me away from a life I’ve slowly come to love. With my semester abroad in Japan approaching, I’ve sublet my apartment to a fellow student, meaning I’ll have to say goodbye to Augsburg—at least for a while.

I know the city will keep breathing, loving, and crying without me, continuing to be a euphoric playground for all kinds of human escapades. To Augsburg, I am just a fleeting visitor on my eternal quest for happiness. But that’s okay.

I realized long ago that staying in one place too long does me no good. Maybe I’m nothing more than a restless nomad who’s secretly afraid of any kind of commitment.

As I gaze over the seemingly endless rooftops of Augsburg, watching the sky slowly darken while the laughter and lights behind me grow brighter, I realize that I will miss this city and the people I’m leaving behind in it. The stories they write from now on will no longer include my name. I’ll become their past.

But sometimes, I have to make grown-up decisions, even if I’d rather avoid obligations. It’s not so bad. After all, I’m not saying goodbye forever. And with that certainty, I can dive into my next adventure without any worry. Because, deep down, I might already know that Augsburg is a place I’ll want to return to and stay a little longer. At least maybe.

An Evening With Friends:

Before we part ways for a while due to our upcoming semester abroad, I spent a few memorable evenings with my friends. Investing quality time with people I care about is incredibly important for maintaining mental stability and avoiding the depressive phases that tend to creep in when I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long.

I’m someone who only understands how much I care about certain people once they’re gone. That’s why I’m a little afraid that I might only realize too late how important the network of friends I’ve built over the past few years is to me—as soon as I step off the plane without anyone else on the other side of the world.

We annoyed neighbors during gaming competitions, sweated up stairs during movings, devoured Asian delicacies on movie nights, flirted in beer gardens and ice cream parlors, emptied cold drinks by rivers and lakes, and fought monsters, priests, and potential murderers during game nights, pen-and-paper sessions, and mystery dinners.

There were also afternoon coffee parties and bar visits at the city’s trendiest spots, with deep conversations about life, love, and death. I spent as much time as possible with other human beings, draining my social battery to the max. But it was worth it, because I knew our window of opportunity would very soon close.

I know myself. It can be dangerous for me to cram too many appointments into a short period of time. That usually ends in temporary burnout, leaving me unable to exit my apartment for days, weeks, or even months—and during those tough times, not even my antidepressants help.

But just before my semester abroad and the impending flight to Japan, I didn’t have the luxury of pacing myself. Sometimes life gets in the way, and you either seize the moments that come with it—or simply miss them for good. I’m glad I had the strength to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way. In the end, I have no regrets when it’s finally time to say goodbye.

One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure:

I pride myself on having excellent taste when it comes to cultural offerings. The more East Asian indie films from the late nineties I watch, the more superior I feel to the world out there. Although I often have no idea what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into, I like to compare it to jazz: the more I think of tortured cats when I listen to it, the more profound, creative and adult it must be.

As long as I’m consuming something that at least gives me the feeling that I’m witnessing something higher, I’m happy. Maybe if I’m able to fully understand Hideaki Anno’s psychological drama film Ritual someday, I’ll become some kind of holy cinephile god—who knows.

However, there are also evenings when I suddenly find myself in front of one or two reality TV shows on Netflix because my friends wanted me to watch with them how the singer from the band Tokio Hotel, you may still know them from songs like Monsoon, Don’t Jump, and… surely another one, getting fucked up at the Oktoberfest, eats curd balls at his mom’s, and drives through the desert with his twin brother in a camper van.

The fun went on for eight episodes. At the end I wasn’t much wiser than before, quite the opposite in fact, but at least there was delicious Hwachae with watermelon, mango, and some undefinable goo to eat in the meantime.

I more or less secretly hope that there will be a second season of the series, after all, I’ve invested time in it now, which should have paid off. Will Bill and Marc ever become a couple? How much alcohol can the average Kaulitz brother take in a day without collapsing? And do I have to listen to a certain podcast to keep up to date and because I may have promised someone without really thinking about the consequences? I’ll probably never know.

Trash television is a welcome change for my constantly stressed brain. Because sometimes it’s quite a good idea to dive into completely irrelevant parallel worlds with even more irrelevant protagonists in them.

Do You Wanna Play a Game?:

As someone who typically enjoys gaming with a controller in hand or a keyboard under his fingers, sitting in front of a screen, and snacking while exploring old ruins, bustling towns, or enchanted forests with my illustrious group of virtual adventurers, I’ve found myself more frequently gathered around a table with others in recent years, passing balls, cards, and dice.

Whether playing for drinks, stakes, or simply for pride, with the right group, a fun evening was always guaranteed. Together, we played through Poker, Tac, and Dungeons & Dragons, held competitions, and sometimes even invented our own rules to make the games more interesting.

It’s amazing how distinct traits of individual players emerge when they’re placed in a group, seated around a table, and given the chance to win a round or two. They love psychology, fantasy, or social justice and show this more or less consciously in their actions.

Some analyze every strategy in great detail, while others dive into the chaos with a naive Leeroy Jenkins mindset. Some try to assist their rivals when they sense unfairness, while others show no mercy. Some lose interest the moment they sense they won’t win, while others persevere until the bitter end. The more distinct my opponents’ characteristics, the more interesting the game becomes.

The game nights I’ve spent with friends have also taught me a lot about myself. For one, my ambition is heavily tied to my mood. When I’m in a good mood, it’s easier to accept losses and celebrate wins. I’ve also realized that the conversations during the games mean more to me than the games themselves. The dialogues that arise are things that might otherwise go unspoken.

And finally, I’ve learned that I really hate Tac. It’s just a complicated version of Ludo with cards, for whatever reason. But despite that, I’m grateful to the wonderful people who have introduced me to a world of tabletop gaming that’s so different from my usual digital realm.

How to Cook for Forty Humans:

I enjoy cooking with others because I love combining good food with even better company. Of course, I don’t do this with just anyone, but with people who are either close to my heart or just kinda hot. We go to the nearest store together, decide what to prepare while browsing the colorfully stacked shelves, pick out fresh, delicious ingredients, and then head home with our jam-packed bags.

There, we chop vegetables, fry fish, meat, or tofu, and toss some noodles into a pot. Meanwhile, we listen to the latest playlists on Spotify, chat about the ups and downs of life, and eagerly anticipate the upcoming feast, enjoying some fizzy drinks along the way.

The real fun begins once the cooking is done. Whether there are two, three, or ten of us around the table, we take a moment to look at each other before diving in, filling our plates with salmon, salad, and summer rolls. Conversation flows freely as we talk about the world and its wonders, big and small, or relax with a Netflix show or two.

And if we’re not in the mood for the inevitable clean-up afterward, we simply open a delivery app and save ourselves the hassle, scrolling through pictures of pizzas, sushi, or stir-fried noodles. An hour later we sit on someone’s bed, enjoying some delicious Pad Thai, a cute anime, and some human connection.

Sure, I don’t always need company when I’m eating-whether it’s a carefully crafted meal or a quick snack. Sometimes, I sneak into the supermarket next door in the evening, grab some nearly expired nigiri at half-price, and hope the salmonella gods spare me again, as I wash it down with a bottle of Diet Coke.

Dessert might be a handful of cornflakes that I nearly choke on because a Zelda Let’s Play distracted me from chewing. It can be quite relaxing to spend an evening like that now and then, but I shouldn’t rely on this so-called lifestyle all the time, because, as the saying goes, Food tastes better when shared with friends.

Cute Girls Doing Cute Things:

Kaos doesn’t have it easy. Not only does the teenage manga tryhard look like a primary school student and have no friends besides some curious animals she meets on her way home, but she’s just learned that her four panel artworks came last in a survey among national comic book fans.

Before Kaos considers hitting up with Truck-kun to finally end her misery, her editor suggests she move into a dormitory for manga artists to improve her creative skills and perhaps participate a bit more in social life. Before Kaos knows it, she becomes part of a quirky crew of fanatical artists who all share one weeby goal: to achieve their big dream of a career in manga.

In the anime genre Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, the name says it all. There are no epic adventures, devious villains, or hard-to-guess plot twists. These comfy slice of life stories revolve around cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less. They go out for ice cream, chat at school, hang out in parks, visit bathhouses, and encourage each other in tough moments so they don’t give up.

Shows like Comic Girls are pure balm for the soul when the world feels too chaotic, stressful, and overwhelming. Life can be a real jerk sometimes, but in these colorful fantasy universes, every challenge can be solved with a little courage, fun, and good friends.

In the style of K-On!, New Game!, and Non Non Biyori, the different characters in Comic Girls complement each other, growing stronger together. Little Kaos meets the energetic Koyume, the tomboyish Tsubasa, the shy Ruki, and the somewhat sinister Suzu in the dorm. Each of them has their own fears, but together they can overcome them and make progress in life.

And there’s always something to laugh about, often through awkward or embarrassing situations. When I’m not in the mood for earth-shattering blockbusters, I cozy up with a hot cup of tea and watch anime like Comic Girls, enjoying cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less.

Is Beer Art?:

Every semester, the Werkschau is the grand finale at the Faculty of Design. At this vernissage, students from Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg present their final projects from all areas of analog and digital art. From photography, books, and drawings to computer games and interactive installations, everything that’s new, cool, or just fun is included.

There’s also live music, delicious food, and plenty of refreshing drinks, along with many familiar and unfamiliar faces who don’t want to miss out on the hustle and bustle. And if that’s not enough, you can dance into the morning at the after-show party in a nearby club.

I personally had my hands more than full at this year’s Werkschau. Not only was I a member of the generally stressed team that organized this illustrious event, but I also presented my short film Into the Woods, which had previously premiered in a museum.

Additionally, I spoke to fellow students about their entrepreneurial plans after graduation for my work at the start-up incubator Funkenwerk, the central contact point for innovative ideas at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg. I even stood behind the bar as a member of the student council to ensure that everyone stayed hydrated in the sunny weather—mostly with beer.

The end of the vivid exhibition also marked the end of my fourth semester at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg and heralded my temporary farewell. It’s amazing how much mental stress built up over the past few weeks and has now disappeared in one fell swoop.

I will spend the next month and a half organizing all the necessary preparations for my upcoming semester abroad in Japan. I need to sublet my apartment, finalize the last necessary documents, and attend a farewell party or two before most of my friends disperse into the big wide world. So long, my beloved university. We will see each other again next year.

The Illegal Girl:

My collection of Japanese indie movies has grown considerably in recent years. What I appreciate most are the quieter slice-of-life titles that provide intimate insights into the small and large everyday problems of East Asian inhabitants.

It doesn’t matter whether the stories take place in the colorful, vibrant streets of Japan’s big cities or among the mountains, lakes, and valleys of rural areas.

Of course, the more I feel connected to the protagonists and their experiences, the more the films resonate with me. As Philip Pullman said, After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

Last night, I watched Emma Kawawada’s My Small Land. It’s about a girl named Sarya, whose parents are Kurdish refugees from Turkey living in Japan. She pretends to be German to her friends because she has had better experiences with this than with the truth.

While her father works, Sarya looks after her younger siblings and contemplates her future, as she will soon be going to college. An intimate relationship develops with her colleague Sota, and her feelings become increasingly clear.

Sarya wants a completely normal life. When her father’s application for asylum is rejected, the world she has worked so hard to build begins to crumble.

My Small Land is a haunting movie about the balancing act of a young refugee caught between two worlds, searching for her own. As the story progresses, I felt more intensely the inner turmoil pushing Sarya to her emotional limits as she tries to save her siblings from the fate that lies before them. Sarya’s life becomes a gauntlet of cultural constraints, social circumstances, and her own dreams.

My Small Land depicts the sacrifices people make to avoid being broken by reality. After watching it, I realized once again how much my privileges protect me from these challenges and the hard decisions that I’ve been able to avoid—at least so far.

Pen and Paper:

I embrace my nerdy side not only through my limitless Japanophilia, which manifests in an arguably unhealthy consumption of anime, manga, dramas, books, and pop music I can’t even understand, but also through my love of geeky tabletop role-playing games.

In this exciting fantasy realm, I navigate enchanted kingdoms as a magical dragon warrior, explore small towns overtaken by Cthulhu’s monsters as a clumsy policeman, and venture through enemy spaceships as a trigger-happy hophead.

Tabletop role-playing games are like a carefree vacation for my brain, offering a chance to let loose and try things I (probably) wouldn’t dare to do in real life.

A couple of friends and I have been members of a role-playing club for some time now, where we more or less regularly experiment with different scenarios, characters, and rulebooks. From fantasy to science fiction to cyberpunk, there’s nothing we wouldn’t dare to try.

Personally, I prefer the bloody horror one shot adventures, where we slip into the roles of unsuspecting citizens who roam through abandoned settlements, haunted mansions, and cursed cathedrals, only to face crazy cultists, hungry vampires, and, in the last dungeon, an overpowering deity and, in the best-case scenario, be torn to shreds by it. After all, survival is only for cowards.

I’ve wanted to try tabletop role-playing games for a long time after hearing about them in various podcasts, YouTube videos, and not least in Stranger Things. So, I’m thrilled to have found other people who are just as eager to dive into other worlds and let their imaginations run wild.

Where else can you try to ride angry unicorns, shoot the newly born Antichrist, or drown a doomed metropolis in smelly feces to perhaps save it from its fate, only to realize in the end that all these ideas were rather semi-smart? Exactly. When I’m on my semester abroad, we’ll try to hold the sessions online. And maybe I’ll find a group in Japan that’s keen to play, too. Who knows.

Public Viewing:

Anyone who knows me even a little bit understands that soccer doesn’t interest me in the slightest. During some World Cups, I am a vague fan of the Japanese national team, but only to the extent that I follow their wins and losses from the sidelines.

I generally have little interest in spending several hours watching others compete in sports unless they are characters in an anime or manga to whom I have formed an emotional attachment.

In the end, my favorite soccer team remains the Kickers around Kakeru Daichi, even though they only know about winning tournaments from hearsay. But at least they scored a goal against the Falcons once. Yeah.

Despite my general disinterest in any ball sports, I went to a public viewing event in the city center on Friday night with some friends because Germany was playing Spain in the last sixteen round of the European Football Championship.

As we all know, our national team lost, but I doubt anyone there cared less about that than I did. So why was I there anyway? Because I realized that it’s essential to socialize regularly, especially when you’re hanging out with people you know, like, and can have fun with. The reason for getting together becomes secondary. It’s much more important to feel connected to others—and eat some snacks while you’re at it.

The time I can spend with these people is finite. And that’s not just because of my own mortality, but because we’ll soon have to say goodbye to each other as the semester abroad is just around the corner. Mine in Japan doesn’t start until the fall, but others will be leaving in a few weeks to explore the world. From Spain to Canada to South Korea, everything is included. We won’t see each other again until next spring.

That’s why I’m trying to spend as much time as possible with my friends before our schedules scatter us in all directions. And that, in turn, means that I even watch soccer with them, despite my interest in it being around freezing point.

My Heart Is a Ghost Town:

Although I’ve always considered myself a global cosmopolitan who has long since cut ties with German pop culture, Paula Hartmann’s Kleine Feuer has been my most-listened-to album over the past few months. There were days when nothing else played in my AirPods all day but these 15 songs, from beginning to end, over and over again, morning, noon, and night.

Others see ghosts, I only see you, Paula whispers to herself without any empathy. So long shadows with so little light. You send a smiley face, trap doors open. My heart is a ghost town and you are the ghost. The wine at two makes me cry again at three, then I fall asleep.

Paula’s apathetic voice and the bleakly pulsating beats are the anthem of my default emotional state, which I can only escape when I’m with other people, and which I fall back into as soon as I’m alone. The Berlin singer comments on the world I’m trapped in on solitary evenings.

Wish we could talk to each other, wish us one last summer. Hear my friends say: ‘Everything will be fine one day.’ As long as you swim through the rain and thunder. Where’s our happy home? I’ve forgotten where I live. Listen to our last notes, otherwise silence on my phone. Share no more songs, share no more smoke. Share the stars and the moon.

I like tracks that I can listen to in the background, but also immerse myself in. Paula’s music covers me like a blanket and reminds me that other people feel the same way as I do.

The cord of my hoodie tastes like fall and the first birds are screaming in pain. The colorful ravens put on their black coats. A grandma behind every windowsill. The first bus wipes me up and then breathes me out. A brake light beacon in the exhaust, rusty leaves on cobblestones. A quick thought about you and suddenly gravity has me again. Kicks my legs, fall down and break. Your roof turns gray walls into a house. In it, we exchange disappointments for a lifetime.

Hollywood’s Calling:

My favorite project of the semester, which is slowly coming to an end, was a short film I created for the compulsory elective course Motion assets. The topic was Young People and Old Trees.

While my fellow students focused on animations to complete the task, I insisted on making a real film and was allowed to do so. After all, I had always wanted to do something like this.

So, I grabbed a good friend of mine and we went to the nearest forest together to shoot Into the Woods. I can confidently say that the movie is an absolute masterpiece, and I’m expecting a call from Hollywood any second now to become the next world’s most famous director.

The short film is about a young woman who embarks on a journey into the depths of the forest to meet her destiny. I aimed to combine the flair of The Blair Witch Project with the aesthetics of David Hamilton.

The piano music, which I composed while tapping away on my keyboard, is intended to give the story an ominous touch. The countless retro filters I applied to the videos provide the whole piece with a dreamy feel.

Incidentally, the ending features a computer-generated imagery firework that makes even Michael Bay look outdated. I really enjoyed the shooting, even though the model caught eight ticks in the process. Suffering for the sake of art.

Into the Woods premiered in a museum last weekend, and interested viewers asked me afterward whether the young woman survived, what the fire meant, and if the movie was an allusion to the climate crisis we’re currently in.

I replied that I would answer all their questions in the upcoming second part, Into the Woods 2: Revenge of the Trees. Finally, I’ve acquired a taste for chasing nude girls through nature in front of my camera.

Fortunately, I’ve received a bunch of requests from potential models who would like to participate. So, you can look forward to my next magnum opus, which will be shown in an artistic, or adult oriented, movie theater near you.

Chaos Nation:

I love dystopian movies. Children of Men, The Road, Snowpiercer—the more hopelessly the future is depicted, the happier I grin. Classical psychoanalytic theory would attribute my passion for the end of the world to the death drive, the urge for doom and destruction.

This concept was first proposed by the Russian psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein in her essay Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being and later expanded upon by Sigmund Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle.

Personally, however, I believe I am simply fascinated by chaos because my life is a minefield of self-imposed rules, and I need confirmation that abandoning them would lead to anarchy.

Last night, I watched Alex Garland’s Civil War starring Kirsten Dunst, Nick Offerman, and Cailee Spaeny. In the dystopian thriller, the President of the United States illegally secures a third term in office, plunging the country into another civil war.

A ragtag group of journalists embarks on a dangerous road trip to conduct one last interview with the fascist Donald Trump lookalike before the rebel army reaches the White House to end the man-made horror and restore democracy to the deeply divided nation. But between them and the most powerful man in the world lies a mayhem universe full of racist lunatics, mindless soldiers, and creepy murderers.

The mental appeal of Civil War lies in the increased probability that the world it depicts could become reality with just a few wrong decisions. Many inhabitants of the land of opportunity already yearn for anarchic freedom and want to turn the United States of America into a lawless theme park where anything deemed unpatriotic, or just Mexican, can be shot at.

Perhaps Civil War is not just a glimpse into the future but into our present. And because this idea is only exciting until it comes true, next time I’ll prefer watching another unrealistic disaster movie. Preferably something with zombies, asteroids, or ravenous sharks that live in tornadoes.

Too Many People:

A few friends and I were out and about at the Augsburg Summer Nights over the weekend. For a few days, the city center transforms into one big party with all kinds of music stages, food stalls, and even a silent disco.

But before we threw ourselves into the thundering crowds of the Bavarian town, we chilled out in a pal’s garden right next to the hustle and bustle, treated ourselves to a few cool drinks, and shared some funny life stories.

There, I met an amusing sports student whose chaotic love life sweetened my evening, and my psychologically quite committed playmate, with whose help I became the undisputed king of a certain board game.

Unfortunately, I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy the Augsburg Summer Nights—unlike my friends. There were just far too many people crammed into one place. I couldn’t enjoy the various music performances or have a bite to eat in peace. Everyone transformed into a huge ocean of bodies and I felt like I was drowning right in it.

I was glad when I finally stepped out of the barrier into the airy freedom again and took a few breaths without being pushed around by a crowd. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was grab an ice-cold Coke Zero from a nearby convenience store and watch the colorful and very loud turmoil from afar.

This experience made me realize once again that although I don’t mind lots of people coming together in one place, I only enjoy it if they move in one direction as quickly as I do. That way, I can simply glide through them like some kind of slippery fish, as I do it in big cities like New York, Tokyo, or even Berlin. For the fun part, however, such events are not really for me.

I prefer quieter house parties where I can talk, drink, and dance with the guests without getting run over by a horde of drunken revelers. But after all, everyone has a different idea of fun. And I don’t judge if others had a nice evening or two at the Augsburg Summer Nights. You do you.

No Part of My Life:

It’s an afflicting feeling to know people with whom I once felt very close, but who are no longer part of my life. It’s not as if they’ve moved away, disappeared, or even died, but our relationship has changed so much from one day to the next that we no longer communicate. Not even when we are literally standing next to each other.

Then we ignore one another because that’s what you have to do under these circumstances. And if we would usually have talked, laughed, and shared a few worries, we are now like strangers who happen to be finding themselves in the same place and will soon go our separate ways again without even looking at each other’s faces.

I find this situation particularly difficult at times when I experience something interesting or get exciting news that I would otherwise have liked to share with this person immediately. Until recently, these topics eventually mattered to both of us, or at least we knew that the human being on the other side of the city always had an open ear.

But just before I mindlessly reach for my phone to write her an update on my world or record a voice message asking for her honest opinion or valuable expertise, I remember that I’m no longer allowed to communicate with my former friend and have to deal with this current challenge piling up in front of me on my own.

The hole that this person leaves in my heart will close. Her profile photo will slide further down in the messages and, at some point, disappear. Other faces will take her place and talk, laugh, and share some worries with me. I will soon have forgotten this once important character and the melancholy feeling of emptiness that she’s causing.

It will be as if she had never existed at all. And then I will no longer reach for my phone to share a part of my life with her, because for a brief moment I forgot that this person is no longer a part of it. But before that happens, I wonder if this gloomy emotion I’m carrying around could have been avoided, or if it was inevitable.

Studying in Japan:

The idyllic town of Kumamoto is located on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan and has not only a beautiful castle, an old samurai house, and a colorful landscape garden to offer but also a university that happens to be the partner institution of my college.

This means that every semester there is a lively exchange of academics-to-be between these two learning establishments. Some students are sent from Japan to Germany, and some students are sent from Germany to Japan in return. And guess who has two thumbs and is one of the ambitious people sent from Europe’s politically split heart to the Land of the Rising Sun? This guy!

I will be spending the upcoming semester as an exchange student at the private Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I’m going to study creative subjects such as Graphic Design, Photography, and Manga Media in the Department of Design at the Faculty of Art.

I will be living in a free dormitory that is only a few minutes’ walk from the university’s campus and available to students from all around the world.

The winter semester doesn’t start until October, but I’ll be spending a few weeks in my favorite city of Tokyo beforehand, exploring my old hoods Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara and hopefully seeing some old friends from back then.

The flights to and within Japan and the hotel in Tokyo are already booked. Now I just have to sublet my apartment in Germany and make the remaining travel arrangements so that I’m ready to go to the Land of the Rising Sun for the third time in my life this fall.

I should probably use the next few months to improve my Japanese language skills. Otherwise, it could be a bit difficult to communicate with my fellow students and the rest of the locals during my semester abroad in Kumamoto, because I probably won’t get very far with just basics like Hello, Goodbye, and Sorry, but where’s the nearest toilet? See you soon, Japan. I hope you’ve missed me.

Just Fun:

I’m not sure if it’s my diet, the sun, or my antidepressants, but lately, I’ve generally been worrying less about my life. Whereas I used to spend weeks, months, maybe even years, doing nothing but creating as many sorrows as humanly possible in my mind, I’ve recently been blessed with a stoic calmness that is almost uncanny.

There’s so much free space in my head now, and I can fill it however I want. It’s not as if I don’t care about what happens to and around me, but I take note of it, accept it, grow a little from it, and then continue on my way. Maybe that’s just what you do as some kind of functioning adult—or somebody who pretends to be one.

In the past, even the smallest unforeseeable obstacle would have sent me into acute self-doubt and bottomless panic. But today, I know that difficulties are not only part of life but are essential for me to be a better person tomorrow. And that it is an art to use them to my own advantage.

With this knowledge, I don’t waste a second too much on problems that aren’t really problems at all. Not only that: with this newly acquired form of acceptable equanimity, I automatically allow myself to have fun without any, or at least many, regrets. Because when I invest less time in irrelevant conflicts that should be ignored, I have more time for the good things in life.

So I prefer to spend my time with people who also choose to have fun. I don’t care what exactly they understand by this term or why they have decided to do so. Maybe they don’t want to be alone. Maybe they need a distraction from their everyday worries. Or maybe they have simply learned that celebrating the time we spend together has no negative impact on our future. Quite the opposite.

Life is too short to spend it only in my own head. It’s always the happiest moments that I like to remember the most. So I try to collect a bunch of them before it’s too late. Because as Frank Ocean once said: Have as much fun as possible! Amen, brother.

Cheers to the House Party:

Last night I found myself at a house party in a part of town I haven’t been before, where half the girls in attendance seemed to be called Julia. I like house parties. They’re much more cozy than clubs. And you can have intense conversations there, often with people you’ve just met.

The birthday girl had gone to great lengths to make her party pleasant. In addition to champagne, snacks, and suitable music, there was a bowl full of little challenges at the entrance that each guest could complete if they wanted to. My task was to transform myself into a so-called woo girl and to cheer loudly even at the most inappropriate moments.

Between the colorful fog machine, soap bubbles everywhere, and a drying rack turned into a beer pong table, I met new people who sweetened my evening with their stories. A photographer struggling with herself, a psychologist from Vienna, and an artist whose individual skills made a packed balcony roar with laughter.

I think it’s important to surround myself with new people and be inspired, guided, and encouraged by their dreams, hopes, and perhaps even worries at times when I seem to be at a standstill, at a loss, or generally thinking too much about the purpose of it all. And house parties are the perfect opportunity to meet just such folks.

As I step outside and board the over-punctual night bus with two of the many Julias, I am glad to have been here today among all the cheerful faces, whose laughter from the bottom of their hearts makes me forget my own sorrows.

The evening has shown me once again that this city is full of unique and interesting characters. And it is unfortunately far too easy to overlook them repeatedly in my stressful everyday life as I rush through the big and small streets. But it’s worth stopping, listening, and both hearing their stories and enriching them with my thoughts. I’m already looking forward to the next house party—wherever it may take place.

I Am Europe:

I voted in the European elections this morning. After I bought a coffee at the nearby coffee shop and went for a walk to the next elementary school, where the voting took place, I chose the Green Party because they most closely represent my political views on environmental protection, digitalization, and human rights.

I don’t want to leave Europe to the radical left or the radical right. People who trample on our fundamental democratic values out of greed, ideology, or sheer stupidity must not be the ones who end up destroying our chances of a future worth living. Because tomorrow belongs to those who are committed not to fear, but to hope.

I don’t believe in heritage, tradition, and nationalism. Although I was born in Germany, I do not feel German at all, but as a citizen of the world who is dedicated to the wonders and possibilities of all the different cultures this planet provides.

For me, the idea of a unified Europe is the logical step away from restrictive borders and towards an open society characterized by a wide variety of people, cultures, and views.

Thanks to the benefits, safeguards, and support of the European Union, I have met countless amazing people from different corners of the Earth that I would never have been able to meet without the opportunities of a united continent.

We should be happy to be part of Europe because it strengthens us financially, socially, and culturally. The European Union must be led by people who have only one goal in mind: to improve our community and the lives of us all.

By casting my vote, I have helped to ensure that we are hopefully spared a dystopian future in which radicals, fascists, and populists, under the guise of democracy, aim to undermine and destroy it and our very own existences following thereafter.

Committing ourselves to the European idea is the best chance we have of a realistic utopia in this period of human history. We are united in diversity, we are the future, we are Europe.

War in My Head:

When I was younger, I used to attribute my emotional shortcomings to being a spoiled only child. I had to be the center of attention in every group I was part of. If that didn’t happen, I would go to great lengths to convince everyone around me that I was the focal point of their otherwise unbearable lives. I was an obnoxious drama queen with a distinct main character complex—or maybe I was just bored as hell.

I began to realize that my own thoughts would become my greatest enemy. The constant overthinking about everything and everyone led to a melancholy toward the world and its people. Painful memories gave way to a selfish lack of empathy.

The guilt from poor decisions triggered emotional swings that not only affected me but also those I cared about. I grew afraid of moving forward, knowing that even the smallest steps could end in disaster. My mind became a prison of doubts, loneliness, and self-destruction.

Escaping myself seemed impossible. Even the smallest hint of stress, anxiety, or unpredictability would send me spiraling back into old patterns and harmful habits I thought I had left behind. Most of my mental energy went toward resisting the madness that loomed just one wrong thought away. I knew that if I gave in, I would be lost forever—and that wasn’t worth it. At least, not yet.

I’ve come to terms with a bitter defeat in my ongoing battle with my mind and realized that I can’t go on without professional help. Without support, I keep slipping into the same mental loops and faulty conclusions. Then I grow more frustrated, lonelier, and weaker.

My doctor has diagnosed me with moderate depression. Starting today, I’ll be taking prescription medication to prevent mental crashes, balance my emotions, and hopefully feel happier. I’ve also been referred to a psychiatric ward for therapy. It’s an option worth trying. I hope these steps will help me lead a somewhat normal life, or at least call a ceasefire in the war raging in my head.

Going Places:

Although life feels like it will drag on forever, and I’m convinced of my own immortality anyway, a bitter truth hangs over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles: I will die. I’m not sick, at least I hope not, but the day I die will come, without a doubt.

How am I supposed to deal with this bitter realization without slipping into paralyzing apathy or pure panic, weighed down by my weltschmerz? Exactly: I try to make the best of the time I have left on this planet.

This resolution doesn’t always work. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, letting life’s opportunities pass me by, like some fool who doesn’t even understand the fear of missing out.

On days when I have enough energy, curiosity, and hope, I step outside my front door and actively face the universe. I want to experience something new: an adventure, fresh faces, or something I’ve never seen before with my own eyes. It doesn’t always have to be a grand event or life-changing moment.

Sometimes, giving the small things a chance is enough. I visit an unfamiliar place—a café, a store, or a nearby lake—or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met or haven’t interacted with much before. Sometimes they’re hilarious. Or, I confront problems and fears with new approaches, solving and eliminating them for good.

I’m often so blinded by routine, that I don’t even consider exploring alternatives. Coffee? Black. Sneakers? White. Girls? Blonde. Sometimes, though, I avoid the unfamiliar because I’m afraid that even a harmless choice will plunge me into mental chaos, forcing me to expend significant effort to regain my balance—only to return to the tried and tested.

This has happened far too often, and I can’t ignore the risk. But maybe, the one new thing I embrace on a seemingly inconsequential yet fateful day could be the key to a whole new life. Because no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, every possibility carries the potential for something great.

My Britney Moment:

This event has been planned for weeks in my mind. I storm through the front door, undress, and throw my clothes on the white sheets and pillows-covered bed. I enter the now brightly lit bathroom with a fully loaded electric razor and stand in front of the mirror. A little push in the right direction and the machine starts to buzz.

Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment but tonight there’ll be some love, Alex Turner yells into my ear. Tonight there’ll be a ruckus, yeah, regardless of what’s gone before.

It’s about time. I’m not allowed to think anymore. Now is the time for action. I place the vibrating device on my head and it starts to shred through my hair. Dark tufts rain down around me. In a few minutes, I will be a new person.

I’m the artist of my own self. I try to optimize my body, my appearance, and my clothes so that they no longer cause me any problems. In my mind and the outside world. Because I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and mulling over irrelevancies. And, let’s be honest, a big chunk of laziness too.

Usually, it’s the same story all over again. I think about reducing my lifestyle in terms of food, habits, or stuff I own. The longer the decision to do so runs through my thoughts, the result is always something like: sure, why not? So I delete it.

Sometimes it returns somehow but usually I don’t give a fuck about it and it just disappears from my mind, my future, and my life. If I don’t regret doing it immediately, I know that I’ve made the right decision. Like shaving my head and thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self.

There must be no more options, just my own unique and individual standard. It’s time to emancipate myself from my doubts. That’s why I choose one path in every single respect. And I try to stick to it, with some adjustments of course. The universe is chaotic enough. So I’m happy about any lack of alternatives—even if it’s only brought about by myself.

This is my Britney moment. The big difference between her situation and mine is that she did it out of mental desperation and I did it out of an unavoidable step in my perfectionist master plan.

The liberating feeling you get when you run an electric razor through your hair and realize that there’s no going back now is probably somewhere between orgasm and murder. And it’s only that good the first time. That’s for sure. Because from now on it’ll be just another routine that I have to implement into my life. It’ll soon become completely normal for me.

I look at my work of art in the mirror. No racing heart, no regrets. Just absolute satisfaction that I no longer have to worry about this part of my life. And, who knows, maybe Britney felt the same.

Unrequited Expectations:

I firmly believe that expectations are the root of all disappointment in interpersonal relationships. Expectations will always let me down, no matter who or what they’re directed at.

If I assume that someone I care about will act in a way I expect, I’ve already set myself up for failure. There is no exception to this harsh law of life. Even when expectations seem to be met, it’s often an illusion.

Why do people I place expectations on end up disappointing me? It’s not that they do it on purpose, they have their own expectations of situations, goals, hopes, and people. They’re playing the same doomed game, just with different players.

They don’t know what’s going on inside me. And they don’t have to, nor do they need or want to. They have their own thoughts and worries, and they’re busy enough with those.

So, should I never place any expectations on anyone or anything again? Perhaps. But maybe it’s enough to avoid basing my entire emotional world on those expectations and falling apart when things don’t go as I imagined.

I should aim to be strong enough, so grounded in myself, that the actions of others don’t throw me off course. The more satisfied I am with myself, the more I can tolerate not being the focus of others’ attention. And that’s a good thing.

I must be careful not to fall into the same traps as many others who overthink their lives, relationships, and dreams. Unmet expectations can lead not only to disappointment but also to the destruction of important friendships.

Unmet expectations offer valuable lessons. They help me reflect on myself and the people around me. Approaching people without expectations allows me to enrich my life with the experiences they trustingly share, without expecting anything in return.

I shouldn’t close myself off to this opportunity but approach it with an open heart—even if I may never truly become part of the world of the one I hold those expectations for.

Self-Destructive Tendencies:

Hello. My name’s Marcel, and my various hobbies include reading, cooking, and sabotaging my own life. Then I chase away friends, place obstacles in the path of my success, and sacrifice myself for irrelevant beliefs.

While normal people know when to stop and avoid repeating the same mistakes, I crave unnecessary drama and go the extra mile. All I reap from these self-destructive tendencies are disappointment, anger, and loneliness.

The worst part is, I know when it’s better to stay quiet, when a situation doesn’t need to escalate—but something inside me wants to watch my world burn, over and over again.

With this attitude, I’m putting people through pointless tests they can’t pass, just to prove to myself that these friendships were doomed from the start. That I’m better off alone, because relying on others only leads to disappointment.

Thanks to my superior mindset, I save myself the time, which I can now spend alone—trapped in my head with no chance of escape.

It’s hard for me to tell who’s truly a friend and who just happens to share the same space. Who’s forced to spend time with me but looks for the next chance to get away. And just when I’m surrounded by people to whom I’ve devoted thoughts, dreams, and hopes, I feel alone again.

Why bother making connections if they’re only going to be shallow, collapsing like a house of cards with just a few wrong words? I could save myself the trouble. I shouldn’t set up false expectations, and if I did get disappointed, I’d only have myself to blame.

Should I stop people from entering my life and wave them away before they even get close? Since there’s nothing left but to spend some time together and then say goodbye?

It’s unrealistic to form friendships with everyone. It’s enough to share a moment, to enjoy each other’s company before moving on. And it’s okay to dedicate thoughts, dreams, and hopes to those fleeting connections.

Welcome to the Club:

Each faculty at our university has its very own student council. There is one for computer science, one for humanities and natural sciences, one for architecture and civil engineering, one for electrical engineering, one for mechanical and process engineering and one for economics.

And then there’s the motley crew that I’ve been a member of: The Design Student Council. This is where illustrious people from the three degree courses Communication Design, Interactive Media, and Creative Engineering come together to chat about art, events, and life in general over pizza, beer, and music, as well as to have a bit of a rant about the other student councils.

Through the student council, I got to know all sorts of great people from different areas of the university who would otherwise have remained unknown to me and would have continued to pass me by without a greeting in the canteen. Together we organize flea markets, karaoke evenings, and exhibitions, act as contacts for new students, and try to improve university life with our ideas.

Sometimes we spend hours discussing grievances at our faculty, sometimes we try to answer the eternal question of how many primary school children we could defeat in a fight to the death. The correct answer, of course, is seven—everyone knows that.

I am very glad that in my first semester I dared to sit down week after week in a room full of people who were becoming fewer and fewer strangers to me, and through this, from my perspective, quite courageous step, I became part of a community that enriched my time at university in many ways.

Gradually, more and more of my friends have found their way into the Design Student Council, and thus to free cold drinks, and rumor has it that I have already spent a night or two in our designated room after the evening got a little out of hand. Every faculty at our university has its own student council—and ours is undoubtedly the best.

The Wandering Mouth:

We’re at a party. Strange and familiar faces hover around us, drinking and shouting. Cheerful music fills the air. The garden where we celebrate is lit up in bright colors.

You’re having fun, drifting from one bottle to the next, from one taste to another, from one mouth to the next. People are waiting for you to push beyond the limit. Things are spinning out of control. The mood shifts. It’s no longer fun.

The night grows darker. You fall, lying on your back on the grass, laughing with the others around you. Your top has slipped up, exposing more than you realize. I walk over, cover you, and pull you to your feet. It’s hard to tell if you’re laughing or crying.

You try to kiss me. I turn away, pressing your head to my shoulder. I love you very much, I whisper in your ear. Silence. I love you too, you answer quietly. Björk’s voice whispers, Your mouth floats above my bed at night, my own private moon.

You nestle your head against mine, the faint smell of beer, salt, and cigarettes mingling in your breath. Hair to hair. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse.

Just because the mind can make up whatever it wants, doesn’t mean that it’ll never come true, won’t ever happen. Please, could I change that? I can feel your body against mine. Just because she can. This moment feels like the most important thing in the world.

Is that the right thing to do? Oh, I just don’t know. You turn toward me, your face close. Let me introduce one to the other. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Introduce. A mouth to a mouth.

Your face becomes mine. I taste your lips, your tongue. Your breath enters me, warm, filled with beer, salt, cigarettes, and a hint of loneliness. The dream and the real, get them acquainted.

Maybe hope can win. Can I just sneak up from behind? I plead. Now please, can I kiss her? I shout. Is that the right thing to do? The void answers softly, Oh, I just don’t know. There’s a line there, I can’t cross it. I wake up, am lost, can no longer deny it.

Meeting a Master:

This semester, we took part in a workshop with the popular Hungarian artist István Horkay as part of our Werkwoche at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg. His collage posters are famous and have been exhibited in galleries all over the world.

István Horkay embarked on his journey by graduating from the School of Fine Arts in Budapest. Following this, he was offered an opportunity to enrich his skills at the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow, where he earned his Master of Fine Arts. And he taught us exactly that: The fine arts.

István Horkay’s art is epitomic in the double meaning of the word. A fragment, an incised part of something that already exists, and, because of this incision, a violation of the finished surface, the tangle of writing or a finished picture. This is based on the experience that people, by transmitting themselves through signs, feign a kind of meaningfulness.

In István Horkay’s work, this textual meaningfulness always appears differently, as contrasting colors appear on the surface in separate places. His posters are not only experimental but life itself.

It was a great experience to work with István Horkay and his lovely wife and design some works under his personal guidance. I was allowed to design a total of three posters, which I called The Book of Love, The Bachelor of Arts and Jazz.

The workshop was complemented by an exhibition that took place together with a display of the most beautiful German books.

The Werkwoche was a great opportunity to creatively break out of the daily routine of studying and try something completely new. I’m looking forward to taking part again in the near future.

My second semester was rewarding—I had a great time, made new connections, and deepened existing ones. That’s what college is all about. At least for me.

In the semester after next I have the chance to spend it abroad and was asked to choose a university in a country that interests me. After some thoughtful consideration, I’ve narrowed down my options to Japan, Taiwan, and Lithuania.

In a few weeks, I will know where my journey will take me. I would agree with all the choices. Simply because each of them offers opportunities that I will never have again.

Let’s see where destiny will take me to. Until then I’m looking forward to my fourth semester with new courses, new people, and new adventures. Yeah.

Time to Grow Up:

Since the beginning of my college attendance and the subsequent move to a new city, my entire circle of friends consists of my fellow students. That wouldn’t really be a problem. After all, they are all great people with their very own dreams, hopes, and goals. And I’ve grown very fond of some of them over time.

We’ve partied the night away together, sunbathed by the lake, cooked delicious food, danced, played tabletop role-playing games, watched anime, and had profound conversations about the meaning of it all. The time I spend with these people means a lot to me.

But I’m realizing that the age difference between me and them is leading to interpersonal difficulties. After all, I am now 40 years old and most of them are around 20. And that’s not a very healthy relationship.

When we celebrated my birthday in a trendy bar in the city center a few days ago, we had a lot of fun. Expensive drinks, loud music, and a few colorful drugs. Everything I need to have a good time.

But of course, I noticed that I was the oldest person there. I couldn’t flirt with anyone because otherwise, I would have felt like a creep. And that’s not all: I’m generally not allowed to develop feelings for my fellow students that go beyond friendship. No matter how much I would like to sometimes.

Because otherwise, I feel like I’m abusing their trust in me as a friend. But since I would like to be in a romantic relationship again because I honestly miss that in my life, I now feel a little trapped in this adolescent world.

I have therefore resolved to finally grow up. At least partially. I need to expand my circle of friends. Get to know people who will help me grow. Mentally. And with whom I have the chance to develop intimate relationships that are not possible in my current environment for various reasons.

However, I don’t yet know how I’m going to do this. Maybe I should find a new hobby. Or go to places that are frequented by people of the same age. Or maybe it’s enough to walk through the world a little more consciously and be more open to new folks.

The important thing is not to get too comfortable in my present surroundings. Otherwise, I will deny myself opportunities that are currently hidden from me.

Midlife Crisis Outfit:

As of today, I am 40 years old. So it’s about time to talk about my midlife crisis. Strictly speaking, I’ve been in it for four decades now, but in order to have a good starting point for today’s topic, let’s just assume that it’s reached its peak today.

My midlife crisis manifests itself internally through constant reflection, depression, and self-destructive tendencies and externally through continuous optimization of my, at least in my eyes, perfect outfit.

I am a great advocate of a single appearance. While normal people wear a different wardrobe every day, consisting of all kinds of colors, shapes, and brands, I have made it my mission to find the ideal piece of clothing for every part of my body. And, yes, I know that this behavior is the result of some error in my head. But let’s call it minimalism.

I quickly realized that the majority of my individual uniform had to be black. That way I don’t have to worry about any color combinations. Black always fits, looks good, and is also slimming. No other color has so many wins.

What’s more, my outfit has to be cheap, basic, and available everywhere. Even if, for whatever reason, I end up in Guatemala, I need to be able to go into town and replace a used item of clothing there.

That’s why I’ve chosen a few international companies whose products I use to present myself to the world. Of course, I always adapt this decision. After all, my outfit is alive. Like me. I’m not dead. Yet.

Most of my clothes are from H&M. Because the quality is good, the price is reasonable, and availability is guaranteed. One plus point is that the basics are not printed with logos. They are simple, modern, and have a good shape. I can also dye them if they are washed out.

So I’ve bought the same black pants, T-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, jackets, underpants, scarves, and gloves several times so that I can change them every day.

Of course, I can’t wear too many nameless basics, otherwise I have no character. That’s why my cap printed with the New York Yankees logo is from New Era. Because I wanted something American.

And since black only looks good with white accents, because otherwise you seem like a mortician, I’m wearing a pair of white Nike Air Force 1 with white Nike Everyday Cushioned Training Crew socks. Because it’s the default right now.

My outfit is rounded off with black Jisco glasses, a vintage Casio watch, and Apple AirPod Pros. Done. This is how stylish a midlife crisis can be. At least in my head.

The Death of Social Media:

When websites like MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter emerged in the early 2000s, I was fascinated by the possibilities they brought. Whether I was chatting with buddies, flirting with girls, or discussing the latest One Piece episode with other fans, social media turned the internet into a place where strangers could become acquaintances, and acquaintances could become friends.

Social media shaped who I am today. Facebook took me to Berlin, Twitter to Japan, and Instagram to America. I reveled in the benefits of this universe, but I watched with regret as these platforms gradually became breeding grounds for hate, ignorance, and depression.

Suddenly, social media was no longer fun. Still, I didn’t want to abandon the dream of a connected world, because there were people on these platforms who meant something to me. For far too long, I ignored my inner voice telling me it was time to say goodbye to the hollow shell that social media had become.

Maybe I was just afraid, or perhaps I was hoping I’d find a reason to keep denying the inevitable. But the longer I stayed, the more out of place I felt amid the angry voices, blunt propaganda, and false promises. So, I had only one choice to finally shed this mental burden that had weighed on me for years: delete social media. And now, I’ve done it.

Besides my retreat from social media, I’ve also stopped using emojis in emails, chats, and text messages. I’ve disabled the buttons that let me decorate my thoughts with colorful little pictures on my phone and computer. My words have to stand on their own. And if they can’t, then I’ve failed as a writer—and as a decent human being.

Of course, emojis serve a purpose. They’re meant to fill the gaps where words fall short. Without them, there will be misunderstandings, arguments, and, ultimately, conflicts. But I don’t care about that. As usual, the world should revolve around me and my decisions, no matter how arbitrary or illogical they may seem.

Men of Culture:

When a brave adventurer has spent the entire day climbing mountains, recovering treasures, and battling giants, while trying to keep every single one of his limbs attached to his body, there are three things that drive him to look forward to the next day: Beer. Meat. And sex.

After all, he’s got tough memories in his head, hard-earned coin in his pocket, and an even harder erection in his pants. And he needs to deal with these potential problem-makers as quickly as possible, so they don’t lead to his downfall in the long run. The only question is: Which establishment will help him the most in this delicate matter for the least amount of money?

Stunk and Zel are two prime examples of these now not-so-theoretical fortune hunters. For the jaded human and the high-spirited elf, real life begins when they step onto the streets, now aglow with the city’s colorful neon signs, after a tingling brew at the Ale & Eats inn, run by the ever-bubbly bird lady Meidri.

From there, they can slip into the well-oiled, frequently used orifices of willing prostitutes. After all, there are plenty available here, in every conceivable shape, color, and function imaginable. One day, they rescue the angel Crimvael from the clutches of a wild monster and introduce the innocent soul to the pleasures of jolly light girls.

I enjoyed Interspecies Reviewers more than I expected. Stunk and Zel are two lovable, horny guys who want to mount anything that breaths. Their boundary-pushing sexcapades are so colorful, amusing, and over the top that I’d love to see a second season. But for various reasons, it will likely never happen.

So I have no choice but to close my eyes, have a few warm thoughts, and imagine myself joining Stunk and Zel’s illustrious troupe, about to get down and dirty in the nearest fantasy brothel. I’m even thinking about getting the manga, just because I want to know which brightly lit establishments my testosterone-fueled friends will end up in next.

Blessed Blow:

God had the best cocaine. My friends assured me of that. Nothing was as clear, pure, and effective as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table at weekends.

God was not even twenty years old. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a notorious Catholic boarding school for girls. We should have named her Devil, at least if her stories from there were to be believed.

Since God liked me, I was always allowed to snort for free. But that privilege made me feel like a mooch, so I paid for her food at McDonald’s and her drinks at Bar 25 in return. Sometimes at least.

While I randomly consumed everything I could get my hands on, God only used cocaine to function. Her minimalist usage made a great impression on me.

After a trip to her parents in the south, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor has it there was trouble with a classmate. God had smashed her head so hard against a sink in the restroom during an argument that it broke. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.

Jump, Jump, Jump!:

When I think of Japan, my mind drifts to sushi, manga, and suicide. It’s a country of pure contrasts, where neon lights pulse with life, yet shadows loom just as brightly. Recently, I watched Sion Sono’s cult masterpiece Suicide Club, a delirious descent into the bizarre phenomenon of mass suicides sweeping the East Asian nation.

The film from 2001, featuring appearances by Ryo Ishibashi, Akaji Maro, and Masatoshi Nagase, unfolds like a sinister puzzle, with Detective Kuroda and his team fumbling through a trail of cryptic clues: Rancid sports bags, clunky early-internet websites, and a deeply unnerving pop idol group that’s equal parts saccharine and sinister. And I love it.

The opening scene is burned into my head: Dozens of uniformed schoolgirls, hands clasped and faces alight with giddy laughter, throwing themselves in front of a speeding subway train. Blood sprays across the station like something out of a grotesque art installation. It’s horrifying, absurd, and iconic—a tone-setter for the ride that follows.

From there, the movie spirals into a dizzying blend of splatter gore, J-pop surrealism, and psychological labyrinths. What’s it all about? The search for identity? Love? Friendship? Or is it just a meditation on flesh? Sion Sono doesn’t hand out answers. Instead, he dares me to sit with the madness and draw my own conclusions.

There’s something inconceivably irresistible about shows and movies set in Tokyo right around the turn of the millennium. Foldable phones snapping shut with satisfying clicks, Eurobeat tracks pumping through crowded arcades, schoolgirls in sailor suits dashing to catch the last train—it was the very last time when Japan felt like the epicenter of cool, a fever-dream era that unfortunately will never quite return.

Suicide Club captures that strange moment perfectly, preserving it in all its chaotic, messy glory. And if there’s one message I take away from this twisted gem, it’s that you have to treat life like a write-once hard drive. Although, it would be nice to forget the bad things.

I Lost My Heart in Tokyo:

Japan is not only a land of cultural traditions, technological achievements, and historical, social, and geographical challenges, but for many enthusiasts it is a nation of great and small wonders waiting to be discovered and explored.

Over the past decades, Tokyo has developed into an international hotspot for pop culture, from fashion and music to art. In Kyoto, you’ll find the most beautiful temples; in Osaka, the most delicious delicacies; in Yokohama, the most exhilarating nightlife.

Those who make it as far as Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Tottori experience Japan in its most multifaceted form. They see that anything is possible here. They realize they are standing in the midst of a cultural treasure trove and need only choose a direction.

In anime and manga, wide-eyed space pirates, power-hungry swordsmen, and brave magical girls come to life. In J-pop and J-rock, both the bright and shadowed sides of life are sung about. And in countless novels—from Banana Yoshimoto and Haruki Murakami to Mieko Kawakami—quiet and outspoken heroes alike search for happiness.

Japanese pop culture is full of love, desire, and passion. It seems to burst outward in every conceivable direction, and with every loud bang a new discovery, a new story, a new potential passion comes to life.

My observations of the Land of the Rising Sun, poured into words, are declarations of love to this seemingly endless universe of creative daydreams—one into which you can immerse yourself at will, whose brightly illuminated gates stand open to all who wander the world with open eyes in search of an inspiring home.

I want to celebrate Japanese pop culture in Germany and beyond. Whether fashion, art, music, films, books, games, travel, technology, food, or life in general—whether anime, manga, or J-pop—whether widely known far beyond the borders of the Far East or long since faded into eternal insider status in its homeland.

For you, I set out on a journey into the distance, in search of an alternative world whose energy can be felt from here, whose courage can be sensed from here, whose love can be felt even from afar. I want to grasp it and understand it—and hold it close to us.

In my texts on Japanese pop culture, which I regularly publish on this blog, I sit beside Spike Spiegel in the cockpit in Cowboy Bebop, save the world with Asuka Langley Soryu and her friends in Neon Genesis Evangelion, and wander with Ginko through the spirit-filled forests of a long-forgotten world in Mushishi.

I dive into the bustling chaos of Takeshita Street in the heart of Harajuku, let myself be swept away by the gaming kids in front of the flickering screens in Akihabara, and settle into a well-hidden jazz café in Shimokitazawa to listen, over a cup of matcha tea, to the lively sounds of Ryo Fukui, Casiopea, and Soil & “Pimp” Sessions.

And now and then, I travel back in time to a Japan that no longer exists: to the exciting 1970s of creative revolution, the brightly glowing 1980s of economic dominance, and the sobering 1990s of financial decline. Each era is as beautiful as it is different, waiting to be discovered and brought back to life.

Every single one of my articles about Japan is a digital homage to the creative spirits of a nation that so often seems far away. If you enjoy looking beyond the cultural horizon, if you are always searching for something new, exciting, and surprising, and if you are not afraid of perhaps losing yourself forever in a labyrinth of otherness, then you are in exactly the right place here.

Discover Japan’s most imaginative side with me, again and again. I look forward to embarking with you, in my upcoming articles about the Land of the Rising Sun, on an unforgettable expedition into the depths of Far Eastern ingenuity—and to uncovering together one or another lost treasure hidden somewhere in the depths of Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka.

Beer, Beer, and More Beer:

The second semester of my studies in Interactive Media has just said goodbye to me. Officially it doesn’t end until the end of September but with the semester break starting in the next few days, I can justifiably say that my first year at college is now over.

It has been a year full of new people, experiences, and joy of life. I have learned, designed, and programmed. We made our own movies, build machines, and create animations, tried our hand at programming languages, and almost single-handedly destroyed the university’s beverage budget in the form of beer, beer, and more beer.

I joined the design student council and a Dungeons & Dragons club, helped out at events in front of and behind the scenes, and spent some nights at the campus because I missed the last train home more than once.

While a few months ago, I was still convinced that I wanted to devote myself entirely to visual wonders and thus pursue a Bachelor of Arts, in recent weeks I have come to the decision that I would like to try my hand at the Bachelor of Science after all and thus prove myself in the world of bits and bytes.

The good thing about this plan is that if it fails, I can still crawl back into the art world the following semester. Possibly because the physics-soaked math has taken the fun out of it for me. I would then only have to make up a few missing modules.

In the next semester, we will have to try out various elective modules in the areas of design, computer science, and gaming and decide in which country we would like to spend our semester abroad.

I’m currently leaning towards Japan, Finland, or Estonia, but I still have little a bit of time to think about it in peace. Besides, I have to be accepted there first, and this decision is, sadly, not mine alone. But let’s see in which part of the world I’ll end up in the coming winter.

My versatile studies have given me, and I’m not exaggerating, a sense of life again. A reason to get up early in the morning. To come to campus with joy, smile at familiar faces, and experience new adventures with people I already know or just met for the first time. And for that, I want to thank everyone who has shared this journey with me so far.

I’m really glad I decided to apply at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg last year for being able to have this opportunity and excited to see what challenges await me next semester.

If I Can’t Be a Part of Your World:

Of course I can’t always have what I want. That would be far too easy anyway. My own happiness sometimes collides with the dreams and wishes of others. And I have no right to hurt them just because I hold the questionable belief that I absolutely must be the main character in every single story that is told.

Every now and then I have to admit to myself that, in a play, I only occupy a supporting role and that the spotlight is directed at someone else. No matter how hard that may be on my own ego. Sometimes I am neither Romeo nor Juliet, but simply some random fruit vendor who suffers dutifully in the background.

If the slim, black-clad girl I like—with her white sneakers marked by life, who grins shamelessly at just the right moments—the girl I want to spend time with, experience adventures with, forge memories with, and face the perils of the world alongside, already has someone like that by her side, who—surprise—is not me, then the only correct path I should be capable of taking is the one that leads away.

Away from this captivating girl, away from her supposedly radiant happiness, away from the creeping pain I have grown accustomed to in recent times out of sheer ignorance toward myself and perhaps a touch of masochism.

Above all, away from the inner urge to perhaps still obtain—through some random, completely logic-defying miracle of this universe—the chance to become part of this slowly dissolving hope.

Before I cause irreparable damage. To myself and to the girl I actually wanted to win over. Because all I could achieve with this desperate plan is hatred, anger, and an almost unimaginable loneliness. And I certainly don’t want that. Unless I am already lost. But then everything is too late anyway.

So while she’s lying in bed with her boyfriend late at night, having watched a show, he was allowed to dive into her, and now, without sparing a single thought for me, has fallen asleep tightly cuddled up to him, I stand after a mediocre party in the rain, with two cold, rancid McDonald’s cheeseburgers in a bag, at the main station, waiting for the last train home—only to indulge in the one pastime I desperately wanted to prevent: thinking about her.

These embarrassing and pitiful emotional scars could be avoided if I followed the advice that emerged from a boozy round of others. That I should distract myself. That I should talk to the nice but uninteresting faces about more than just a few irrelevant sentences. That I might thereby find someone who could burn themselves into my emotional world just as deeply as the person whose attention I am trying to draw to myself by every conceivable means.

But of course I don’t want that. Because everyone else is just empty shells compared to this one girl. And even though I know perfectly well that this isn’t true, it’s far easier to regard this both subjective and objective lie as an established truth and thus dissolve undisturbed in my own self-pity. After all, heartbreak is much more fun when I abandon all hope.

Perhaps because this way of dealing with sorrow is also much easier than having to face the uncomfortable reality that I may not actually be infatuated with the girl herself, but with the false expectations I pumped into her from the very beginning.

Because what do I really know about this girl, beyond the scattered stories she so graciously shared with me, and the connections I had to piece together myself—otherwise I would have been staring at a patchwork of other people’s memories? Exactly: nothing. I know absolutely nothing. And realizing this fact is the first step out of my own broken head and into the real world.

On top of that, as could hardly be otherwise, I’m a good person. Of course I am. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t go completely insane. I don’t want to barge into someone else’s romance, no matter how broken and certainly miserable I might imagine it to be. Such a devious attack would not be my place and would also be deeply misanthropic. And probably very stupid.

Besides—and this is the most important point—it would get me nothing. I wouldn’t be the brave hero rescuing the helpless princess from the clutches of a painful relationship. No, I would simply be some random asshole who got too caught up in his own movie and, from whatever psychopathic abyss, decided that his only chance at happiness was to destroy that of others.

And no one wants anything to do with someone like that. Ever. Least of all the girl far removed from my own crumbling world, whose grin I see before me when I close my eyes. Her happiness should be untouchable. Even if she has decided that I myself may not be a part of it.

So I am left with nothing else but to scrape together the last remnants of my own sanity, my own reason, and perhaps a bit of my own pride, and arrive at the only right decision that is worth pursuing.

Namely, that I must tear down, burn, and blow up these bridges built in the wrong direction as quickly as possible, turn around, and finally walk once more along the ridge of mental health. Before it is possibly too late.

Maybe the other nice faces aren’t just empty shells after all. Maybe one of them can evoke the same feelings in me as the slim, black-clad girl with the white sneakers marked by life. Maybe one of them is just as pretty, smart, and cheeky—if only I allow for that potential instead of dismissing it with irritation from the outset. And if everything goes well, I might even forget why I was so fascinated by that one shamelessly grinning person in the first place.

Round Two, Fight!:

Well then, are you all already as excited as I am? Of course you are. Because this week my second semester in the Interactive Media degree program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is beginning. And ahead of me—and my daring fellow companions—lie a few months full of fun, excitement, and… very… nice… other… things. The main thing is that there’s something with alliteration. Because that always sounds good.

And since you’re surely absolutely dying to know what awaits little Marcel this semester, why don’t we all take a look at exactly that together. Because let’s be honest: you don’t have anything better to do right now anyway. Exactly. So… let the wild ride begin!

In the Introduction to Interactive Design, we’ll get an overview of systems of order, the principles of interaction and interface design, the basics of creative prototyping, cross-media design and creativity techniques, basic analog and digital design tools, and the fundamentals of usability as well as design theory. Presumably it’s also about the fundamental fundamentals of the fundamentals—but that’s obviously just speculative wishful thinking.

In any case, we’ll definitely learn information design, data visualization, mapping, screen design—so typography, grids, and design systems—the basics of usability and human-centered design, as well as generative design. That all sounds very fascinating indeed.

After successfully completing the module, we’ll be able to apply basic design principles and typography appropriately across different digital output media, independently prototype design tasks using analog and digital design tools, apply fundamental design and creativity techniques, solve tasks experimentally and process-oriented through prototypes and design variants, and analyze and visualize processes.

The course Introduction to Audiovisual Design, in turn, spans a wide arc from the elementary forms of expression in animation to methodological design concepts for time-based media. Both conceptual design and artistic experimentation are encouraged. The lectures challenge us to actively participate and to develop our own positions.

The working groups and workshops provide hands-on experience, fostering personal experience and self-organization within teams. Group work is, after all, the very best thing in the world. Everyone loves it. And the teaching methods are oriented toward critical discourse and practical experience.

A major focus here is animation. In lectures, the most important animation cultures are presented exemplarily, and in workshops, simple animation techniques are practiced. In addition, cinematic means of expression are also covered—again introduced in lectures and then applied in workshops. This is where we build the bridge to storyboarding, an essential design technique for audiovisual media. Discussions of current and classic media art, as well as excursions to relevant festivals and exhibitions, round out the program.

In the Introduction to Web Technologies, we learn all about the internet and how it works. We study the functionality of key browser protocols, the technical foundations of websites, and the basics of frontend programming. We acquire knowledge about the practical and correct use of relevant internet protocols and browser interfaces, the implementation of designed websites, navigation and manipulation of the DOM using JavaScript and jQuery, and the creation of interactive websites.

We also learn how to analyze connection problems and browser traffic performance in relation to web applications, as well as how to plan and implement our own websites using various developer tools. In the end, we’ll understand what HTTP, TCP, APIs, WebSockets, WebRTC, XML, HTML, CSS, JavaScript, and jQuery are. Hopefully. Wasn’t CSS a band once?

In the Introduction to Software Development, we learn how to design, implement, document, and test our own applications. These applications also include graphics and user interaction via graphical interfaces. By the end of the module, we’ll be able to transfer the acquired knowledge and skills to a small, self-developed software project and put it into operation.

We learn all about development phases, requirements analysis, design, implementation, testing, deployment, and maintenance of programs, as well as methods of agile software development and advanced concepts of object-oriented programming such as class hierarchies, inheritance, and polymorphism, along with programming graphical user interfaces. The content is made practically tangible through an individually planned and implemented software project carried out during the lab.

On a very personal note, the next part of the Japanese language course is also coming up for me, in which we’ll learn the second Japanese script, Katakana. It’s basically the alternative—and mostly Western-term-used—little brother of Hiragana. During the course, we’ll even all go out for Japanese food together and order our dishes in the East Asian national language. How exciting. Ichi sushi kudasai!

And since I postponed the programming exam from the first to the second semester—because my private fortune teller decided it should be so—I also get to look forward to another round of Processing. Hooray. At least I’m not alone in this, because some of my fellow students were just as incapable and are therefore in the same boat as me. That immediately makes me feel less lonely.

In any case, I’m excited to see what adventurous projects we’ll tackle in the new courses, and after the one-and-a-half-month-long semester break—which seemed to go on forever—I’m actually looking forward to returning to a somewhat structured daily routine that is not self-determined by me. On the other hand, the semester break could of course have lasted another three to eighty-seven months longer. I would certainly have been the last to complain.

By the end of this semester, we’ll also have to decide whether we want to pursue the artistic or the technical track. My choice is already clear. And that’s not only because of the traumatic computer science exam that I still sometimes dream about—only to wake up late at night drenched in sweat, shouting, A, A, B, B, A, A, B, A, B, A, B, B, B, A… C?!

My heart simply beats more for the colorful world of subjectively evaluated art. Objective technology, with all its rules, regulations, and laws invented by some mathematicians that are nearly impossible to argue away, is for me more of a means to an end—and therefore secondary. Yes, dear computer scientists, I know this sentence hurts a lot. But you’ll just have to get over it. Really.

As in the previous semester, I’ll then once again present you with a conclusion of the months behind me, in which I’ll proudly proclaim why I am the best, smartest, and probably also most handsome student Augsburg University of Applied Sciences has ever had. And while you’re still laughing, I’ll already be sailing off into the sunset on my yacht—paid for solely by my high IQ—with a very lightly clothed Selena Gomez in my arms. Or something like that.

Hope Dies Last:

From up here you can see the lush green meadows, the azure-blue sea, and the clear, sunny sky. Gentle piano melodies echo through the overgrown high-rises. The decaying buildings are the last memorials to a civilization that was not prepared for its sudden departure.

In the distant future, invaders from another world attack Earth without warning and unleash machine lifeforms to take over the planet. Faced with this insurmountable threat, humanity is driven from its home and flees to the Moon.

The Council of the Exiled organizes a technologically seemingly superior resistance force of android soldiers who attempt to reclaim Earth. To finally break the stalemate, the organization deploys a new unit of infantry: YoRHa.

Meanwhile, in the abandoned wasteland that was once a place filled with bustle and laughter, the battle between machines and androids continues to rage. A war that may soon bring to light the long-forgotten truth about this world and the fate of humanity…

Released in 2017, the role-playing game NieR:Automata by the Japanese artist Yoko Taro could easily have disappeared into the depths alongside countless similar titles because of its premise. Alien monsters attack Earth while humanity desperately struggles for survival. As if one had not already seen, heard, and played through something like that thousands of times before…

Yet while all those other works are forgotten shortly after their more or less tedious completion, even years later one keeps thinking back to what was experienced in the visually stunning successor to NieR Replicant. Because the end of the world has rarely been portrayed as so radically depressing, hopeless, and philosophically heavy.

NieR:Automata is an unforgettable experience on many different levels. The characters burn themselves into one’s emotional world. The epic music by Keiichi Okabe continuously shatters even the most cheerful-seeming thoughts. And the fact that you must successfully finish the game multiple times to fully understand the story—only to end up empty-handed again at the very end, after giving it your all—puts the finishing touch on the whole experience.

Anyone who wants to find happiness in a world of merciless hopelessness and ultimately drown in absolute depression cannot avoid NieR:Automata. Before long, they will be fighting side by side with 2B, 9S, and A2 against a seemingly insurmountable fate. And they will become part of a story whose true ending seems to flee with every step taken toward it—only to struggle desperately against its own resolution at the very last moment, by every conceivable means.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Walking:

I love walking. Drop me anywhere on this round ball of Earth, point me in any direction, and I’ll set off. From A to B, crisscrossing, straight ahead or in circles. The main thing is to keep going, always further. And when I talk about running, I don’t mean jogging, racing, or sprinting—good God, no—but the most relaxed form of human locomotion: walking.

Over the past few years I’ve gradually increased my walking volume. Not long ago my daily step count was still in the single- or double-digit range, but I kept pushing my limit higher and higher. Three digits soon became four. Four digits eventually became five. And five digits might one day even become six. If that’s humanly possible at all.

The number of ten thousand steps a day—randomly pulled out of thin air by a Japanese company for advertising purposes and scientifically completely irrelevant—I can now easily manage. At the moment I’m hovering around an average of twenty thousand steps, like some kind of elite athlete.

My success—so inspiring to every single human on this planet—rests on three significant pillars of individual achievement: boredom, routine, and distraction. I simply have nothing better to do. I only do things if I’m used to doing them. And I only stick with something if my thoughts are occupied with something else while I’m doing it.

With alternative sporting activities, like jogging for example, I spend every second of the agonizing and seemingly never-ending process hoping that some confused hunter will mistake me for a graceful deer—or at least a somewhat stocky wild boar—and shoot me in the forest so it will finally be over. When I’m walking, on the other hand, I’m often surprised to realize I’ve already been doing it for two, three, sometimes four hours without actively noticing.

During the time when I’m more or less abusing my two still-functioning legs, I prefer listening to some kind of alternative-culture podcasts. For example 8-4 Play. Or Retrograde Amnesia. Or Axe of the Blood God. Anything where a few hardcore nerds passionately talk for hours about a topic that has narrowly missed mainstream mass consumption. The geekier, more multi-voiced, and more lively it is, the better.

Then, armed with my noise-canceling headphones, I stride rapidly through cities, across fields, along the lake. Past cars, people, and nice-smelling cafés, boutiques, and döner stands. Always with just one goal in mind: keep walking, always keep going, until I’m so exhausted I almost have to puke.

In Augsburg, where I’m currently studying as you may know, I have a regular route that has been carefully optimized but still leaves room for experimentation. I like the city a lot because it’s neither too big nor too small, and because you can disappear either into deserted alleyways or into the bustling chaos of the crowds—depending on what you feel like at the moment.

On a day completely at my disposal, I get off two stops before the main station, walk to the university library, treat myself to a coffee and a bit of laptop time, and then take a big loop through the Textile District, one or two parks, and the old town before buying something to eat at Rewe and heading home again.

And I do exactly that every day, over and over again, like a broken robot with no life. But it works. Because it’s routine. Because I like the varied route. Because I know exactly where, along my seemingly random path, I can rest, where I can get online, and where I can go to the bathroom. And that kind of certainty is exactly what mentally disadvantaged autists like me need.

This calculated knowledge drastically reduces the chances of unpleasant surprises while still leaving enough room for new ideas, secrets, and discoveries. And occasionally you even meet people you already know—or haven’t met yet—and can chat with them for a bit. At least that way you don’t feel quite so lonely while stubbornly walking in circles.

But Marcel, if you walk twelve-bazillion kilometers every day, why are you still such a fat pig? To that cheeky and completely unexpected question I have three perfectly thought-out and formulated answers. First: shut up. Second: no idea—how should I know? Third: I’m working on it, okay?! More information will be available in my upcoming self-help book, soon to appear at your trusted bookstore: Boss Transformation: From Battle Colossus to a Line in the Landscape.

While I’m preaching to you here about walking, what I actually want to make clear is that if you, for whatever reason, need more movement in your life, all you have to do is find something that doesn’t completely piss you off while you’re doing it. That can be literally anything. Except maybe sitting on the couch eating chips—unless you’re losing weight while doing it. If you are, then you’ve basically won at life.

The only rule you need to follow is that you must keep trying the different activities available to you until you finally find something where, while doing it, you don’t secretly wish for sudden cardiac arrest as an excuse to stop. Some people get lucky and find it on the first try, others only on the hundredth. That risk is something you just have to accept—but it’s worth it.

And if for me that means walking along paths in spring, summer, autumn, and winter—whether in sunshine, rain, or snow—and hopefully not getting run over by a bus, then for you it might be… who knows… football. Or tennis. Or climbing skyscrapers without safety gear or clothing. If the standard-issue stuff isn’t for you, then you should look beyond the obvious. Life is full of possibilities—you just have to use them.

Alright, enough guru talk for today. I’m going to put on my smelly sports shoes that are already almost crying out loudly for mercy, pick a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games of the early nineties, and head out into the wide world like little Hans. And if I do end up getting run over by a bus, at least I’ll have died doing something I truly love with all my heart. And not everyone can say that.

Dystopian Decadence:

A misaligned photograph of the future, born in the fever of Japan’s growth in the sixties and seventies. Traditions, quiet and fine, threaded through with wabi-sabi as an inner pulse, keep time beneath the noise. Buildings that refuse to shed their rust, that keep a film of dull gray on the fingers, stand as patient witnesses. A floating consolation, and a smell of open country, move down the lanes and linger in the alleys.

The story of Millennium Parade unfolds in a forked-off Tokyo, grown out of this zone – our shared room of side-by-side living. The city has laid aside its earlier addiction to polish and noiseless urbanity. Instead, it sets out toward a strange, beautiful, absurdly ideal future metropolis, nourished by disorder and yet leaning toward transcendence.

The self-titled debut album by the Japanese music group Millennium Parade has been on constant rotation for me since release. After all, the record is packed only with absolute bangers from start to finish. Bon Dance? Slammer. Fly With Me? Slammer. Familia? Slammer.

The only tricky part is explaining the genre, because Millennium Parade simply hurl everything they have, pop, hip-hop, electronic, dance, rock, funk, jazz, and rap, into a single pot, give it a hard stir, and then fling the multicolored mash against the wall to see what dazzles.

It splatters, clings, and somehow composes a picture that feels both chaotic and deliberate, a collage that swings from sugar rush to steel-edged groove, music that keeps its playfulness even while sounding engineered with obsessive care. Unskippable.

Millennium Parade persuade not only with modern songs for modern people, but also with a visual presentation rarely seen. The videos and live appearances by the collective surrounding Daiki Tsuneta of King Gnu overflow with off-the-wall ideas and meticulous craft, mixing animation, stage design, and camera play into a kind of kinetic theater.

Every frame feels engineered, yet the work breathes. Spectacle never strangles the spark. Their aesthetic extends the music’s argument. The future can be unruly and tender at once, a city of images that invites touch. And I can hardly wait to finally hold the new record from this Japanese collective in my own hands, whenever it may choose to appear. Because nothing would make my heart happier than waking in a neon-soaked, alternate-timeline cyberpunk Tokyo.

Cool Guys in Their Hot Rods:

Vroom, vroom, vroom—off they go, those daredevil devils in their souped-up death machines. At the Redline, after all, anything goes. The greatest racing competition in the universe only takes place every five years, and that’s exactly why absolutely everyone wants to claim the glory for themselves. All while organized crime and militaristic governments try to exploit the spectacle for their own purposes.

Joshua Punkhead, a reckless hotshot who has clearly never heard of speed limits and who crashes through everything with his ultra-tuned ride that isn’t up a tree by the count of three, has only one goal: to become the winner of the Redline. And that’s despite the fact that his crush, Sonoshee, is also competing—and has absolutely no intention of letting him win.

The murmur among the intergalactic spectators grows loud when it becomes clear that the current race will take place on Roboworld. Its militant inhabitants have absolutely no desire for a bunch of insane sports junkies to tear across their planet and possibly stumble upon one or two secret weapons of mass destruction.

A deadly game begins. Because it’s not just the other racers chasing Joshua—whom everyone simply calls JP—but also the president of Roboworld and his lackeys, who have set their sights on him and his fellow competitors. Can this loudmouthed guy with gasoline in his veins conquer both the Redline and Sonoshee’s heart?

From the first second to the last, Redline is fast-paced and wildly colorful action, occasionally broken up by quieter moments to catch your breath. JP is a likable jerk with his heart in the right place. And both the different drivers and the surrounding characters offer enough depth, soul, or simply fun to keep the audience entertained.

If Redline is anything, it’s stylish. You could pause the film at almost any random moment—every single frame would be a vibrant work of art. Whether it’s the tech-packed racing machines, the densely detailed locations, or the sensual women, Redline bursts with illustrative highlights, all underscored by slick music, bombastic sound effects, and one cool line after another.

By the end, it’s hard to believe what an overwhelming visual spectacle has just unfolded before your eyes, and you almost doubt whether you even caught everything that happened at breakneck speed. After all, the screen practically explodes toward the finale in a firework display of glaring colors. But perhaps that very doubt is what makes you want to watch the film all over again.

You can call Redline many things—but boring is definitely not one of them. Anyone who enjoys cool guys in hot rides and even hotter girls who constantly raise the stakes in every scene will appreciate this anime. Everyone else can keep puttering along in their Fiat Punto through a 30-km/h zone and avoid taking any risks in life.

Something Beautiful Is Going to Happen:

The vacation spot outside Vaasa devoured the four Lund girls. With their tiny bones and their tanned skin, an entire era disappeared. Six kilometers of winding coastline, a popular bathing resort in the fifties. Rows of changing cabins, tall reeds rustling in the wind. Here one finds the era the conservatives long for: when parents could send their children to the beach unsupervised, two dollars for ice cream and a bus ticket in the pockets of their summer trousers.

Mom and Dad shook their heads in concern and concealed the news about the children in Messina, Graad, Gottwald, where, it seemed to them, every week the tiny skeleton of a child was found cast into a replacement wall. Regularly, someone’s daughter who had been kept captive in a basement there for thirty years would flee into the street and scream for help.

But not here. Here there is social democracy. And the delicate peach blossoms of social democracy, its gentle aid programs, these progressive things make the broken soul of a person flare up with a kind of hope. This fantasy land will remain forever untouched by that strange technical urge to build a secret underground room, one with a ventilation system whose vents are disguised in the lawn as miniature clay windmills.

These dark fever clouds of the mind cool in the clear mists of open air; the breath of the distant blue glaciers freezes the sick thoughts of a person. Vaasa. One would much rather live here. And then, on a Tuesday morning, clouds beneath a blue sky, the four sisters went swimming.

The computer role-playing game Disco Elysium, released in 2019 by the Estonian studio ZA/UM, takes place in a world that is raw, merciless, and devoid of any sign of empathy. In an era of political upheaval, in which the survivors of a ruthless war still have to wipe the blood from their faces, everyone searches for the remnants of happiness—whether in one of the great metropolises or far away from the depressive bustle.

Harrier Du Bois, a detective of the 41st precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia, called simply Harry by his few friends and many enemies, wakes one morning in a run-down seaside hotel with no memory of his past or of the world around him. He and his temporary partner from the 57th precinct, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, have been called to the once idyllic coastal town of Martinaise to investigate the brutal murder of a loudmouthed soldier.

The decaying world of Disco Elysium is full of interesting stories, viewpoints, and characters. From the first minute, the game is like a talkative book that wants to devour you and take your breath away with its never-ending chronicles. Wherever you lead Harry—through the enchanted church, the small supermarket, or the desolate swamp—with every step the history of a place collapses over you, a place that shouldn’t even exist like this… or perhaps it should?

Disco Elysium thrives on its enormous freedom of choice and the not-to-be-underestimated weight of chance. This begins even before Harry opens his eyes for the first time and continues all the way to the bitter end—when you only then realize the path you have taken, without having had any sense of what you may have missed. But by then it is already too late.

Harry’s limited time in Martinaise is essentially a search for himself disguised as a detective adventure. Do you want to confront the town’s inhabitants as a permanently drunk Nazi? As an all-knowing philosopher? As an unabashed muscleman? As an authoritarian logician? Or rather as a likable charmer? The possibilities in Disco Elysium seem almost limitless.

Anyone who immerses themselves in the world of Disco Elysium must renounce every distraction; they must become one with every single polygon that transforms into a living painting on the screen; they must become Harrier Du Bois. Or rather: Harrier Du Bois must become you.

Disco Elysium is an experience that likely does not exist a second time in this form or with this intensity. Martinaise may cover only a fraction of what the rest of the world—lingering in a fog that continuously approaches you—has to offer, but one can sense the immense drama hidden all around. And with every conversation, every question, every new idea, you come a little closer to this epic—without ever being able to grasp it fully. For the greater whole, one simply is not ready yet—and probably never will be.

The Empty Heart:

If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.

I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my greatest sins and fears, and give them the feeling that I understand them and would move even the most unreachable levers just so that, simply by having met me, they might become happier. And that’s despite the fact that we only met for the first time five minutes ago.

In the past, I was almost proud of this ability—to actively switch off my shyness, lethargy, and social phobia and suddenly flip them into their complete opposite. Thanks to a trick I taught myself, which I call spontaneous mental distraction, and which works by thinking about something completely different just before doing something stupid or illogical, I do the boldest, craziest, and most charming things without having the chance to reflect on them beforehand. There simply isn’t enough time.

Those actions then feel completely natural and not wrong at all. And afterward I’m always glad I dared to do them, because it allows you to reach people who would otherwise have remained closed off to you. It’s fun to bend the world to my advantage this way. And I once thought that this absolute accessibility made me a better, more complete—and yes, also more popular—person.

Because of this unconventional character trait, I quickly became a central part of many different circles of friends, some of which only formed because of me. I enjoyed it when people desperately wanted to do things with me, competed for my favor at parties, or fell in love with me simply because they believed I was the first and only person on this planet who truly understood them and their problems. The feeling of emotional superiority eventually became normal to me.

But an oppressive truth that I initially dismissed as nonsense slowly became a sad certainty over time: I am a ghost. An empty heart wrapped in flesh without the slightest trace of empathy. A bus full of loudly wailing orphaned children could explode in front of me and it wouldn’t just be that I didn’t care—I would actually be annoyed that the little brats chose this exact moment to burn in front of me and block my way.

The only reason I can make friends with other people so quickly and easily is that they mean nothing to me. And if I do happen to take a particular liking to someone, I analyze them for so long and so intensely until I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of the fascination that drives me crazy—only to drop them afterward like a hot potato. Because I’ve drained everything from them. And then they become, at best, boring or, at worst, unbearable.

When I look back today, thanks to social media, at the various groups of friends that I once thought I was a fundamental part of, many of them still exist—just without me.

The photos that once showed their faces pressed closely together beside mine now have to make do, years later, with one less forced smile. Friends with whom I spent drunken summer nights and spun countless legends became, as if I had never existed, strangers from one day to the next.

I essentially sucked them dry and moved on. Like a ruthless wanderer of emotions who, just a moment ago, was still in the middle of his loved ones—feeling, celebrating, and fucking—and the next moment, when no one was paying attention, had suddenly disappeared.

Never seen again, on the way to the next adventure, only to pull the same stunt as before—just with different faces. At least I brought a few strangers together, so maybe my hunger for feelings had some good side to it, I lie to myself.

If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.

Sometimes I wonder whether I even possess any kind of character at all or whether I’m simply a soulless shapeshifter who only ever reflects whatever brings him closest to his current goal. Ideally into the favor, thoughts, or genitals of the person in front of me.

Always the right answer ready, always a cheeky remark at hand, always the correct balancing act between compassion, seriousness, and humor. And if I do give the wrong response once in a while and feel the inner pain of the resulting mental setback, then I learn from it, adjust a few inner screws, and correct them on the next attempt. But is that really me?

The question of who one actually is is as old and clichéd as life itself. Perhaps I’m simply a Frankenstein’s monster cobbled together from book quotes, television wisdom, and sayings I once picked up from someone I happened to admire—pretending to be a human being, when in truth I am nothing more than a parasite somehow kept alive, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others.

Then I pounce like a starving predator on the first depressed-looking victim who crosses my path, tear them apart skin and hair and bone, and indulge myself in their remains so that something—anything—finally fills me again. A new body, a new thought, a new warmth. Anything other than the tasteless nothingness to which I’ve grown accustomed for so long.

But the hint of satisfaction lasts only a short while and disappears as quickly as it came. Because nothing can fill the seemingly endless emptiness inside me—especially not another person who only wanted to be loved, held, and saved, and who is now nothing more than a vague memory in my continuous bloodlust.

So I move on again, disgusted with myself, toward the next pretty face. Hoping that this time everything will be different. Surely it will be.

Adventures on the Sand Planet:

In the future, our planet will transform into a strange new world in which humanity must endure on an Earth without rain or oceans—only vast, desiccated deserts where two teenagers struggle to survive and search for hope.

The sea, the sky, and the land have been completely polluted by humankind when mysterious objects fall from the heavens. These gigantic structures crash onto the planet and absorb the air, the water, and most living beings into their core, stripping the Earth of the very essence of its nature.

The few remaining inhabitants of Earth fight to survive in a hostile environment and against an oppressive ruling race known as the Rodo. A hot-tempered boy named Ran struggles against the Rodo and against a world in which rain has become nothing more than a legend.

Green Legend Ran by Yu Yamamoto and Satoshi Saga, released in 1992 and 1993, is one of those anime titles that rarely appears on cult lists. Sure, Akira, Spirited Away, or Perfect Blue are always represented, but Green Legend Ran has long existed in the shadows—and entirely without justification.

In fact, it was one of the few titles I once ordered from a catalog on VHS. Alongside *El Hazard* and a *Bubblegum Crisis* music video tape. For whatever reason. I had always intended to get the otaku documentary instead—but at the time I was too young, since it was restricted to viewers 18 and older.

As mentioned earlier, Green Legend Ran is set on a post-apocalyptic Earth with a distinct science-fiction aesthetic. After an extraterrestrial invasion in which six of the so-called Rodo—an apparent race of gigantic monoliths—crash down from space, a massive climate shift is triggered that completely eradicates the oceans and rainfall, transforming the planet largely into an immense desert.

By that time, humanity had already devastated the environment, making a kind of apocalypse inevitable—similar to other environmentally themed anime such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, or Future Boy Conan.

In this brutal new world, two polarized factions have emerged. The first, the Rodoists, is a fanatical religious sect that worships the Rodo while practicing a form of hydraulic despotism. All communities are clustered around one of the monoliths, as they are the only remaining sources of water and food—most of which is gathered near the monoliths in what is known as the Sacred Green.

Travel between communities is rare, since beyond a certain distance from the monoliths the environment becomes so depleted that even the air is no longer breathable, requiring pressurized, spaceship-like vehicles. The second faction, the Hazard, is a secret revolutionary movement that opposes the Rodoists.

The protagonist, Ran, is a young orphan determined to join the Hazard and seek revenge on the scar-chested man who killed his mother. He becomes caught in the middle of a battle between the Hazard and the Rodoists, during which he meets a mysterious silver-haired girl named Aira.

Ran helps several Hazard scouts escape from his city and joins them. Soon afterward, the Rodoist army attacks the Hazard base. Aira is forcibly evacuated by the Hazard against her will. Ran attempts to board the sandship but fails, and begins pursuing it across the desert in a stolen pressure suit.

He is rescued by traveling water and food merchants just before his air supply runs out. The leader of the traders, a thoughtful man named Jeke, offers to help Ran rescue Aira. The rescue attempt goes awry when the Rodoists attack the Hazard sandship and recapture Aira while Ran and the merchants attempt to infiltrate the same vessel.

Divided into three chapters, Green Legend Ran is a rousing adventure film featuring carefully crafted characters who seek happiness after the apocalypse. What begins in a dusty shantytown quickly evolves into an epic journey across deserts, forests, and sacred cities to uncover the secret behind the Rodo.

Co-developed by the well-known illustrators Kenji Teraoka and Yoshiharu Shimizu, the work brims with action, humor, and occasional touches of romance. At times it is quite brutal and, toward the end, features more exposed breasts than many a hentai manga.

Naturally, Green Legend Ran can be interpreted as a metaphor for the environmental catastrophe toward which our species is undeniably heading. Perhaps the Rodo were summoned by the Earth itself to prevent humanity from causing further harm—who knows.

Anyone who enjoys a densely packed adventure anime filled with rugged characters, gigantic sandships, religious fanatics, and a bit of bloodshed will have just as much fun with Green Legend Ran as I did. Not least because of the outstanding soundtrack by Yoichiro Yoshikawa. And who knows—perhaps the film ultimately presents a not-so-implausible vision of the real world’s future.

The Modern Diet:

Honestly, I don’t even know why I’ve been eating less meat in the past few weeks. And when I say less, I actually mean a lot less. It just happened that way. At lunchtime, the cafeteria always served a portion of French fries with ketchup and mayo for a buck—and that was enough for me. Out of curiosity, I picked up a pack of vegan salami at the supermarket, which was actually quite good. And a little avocado, hummus, or pickles with the cheese sandwich: Best.

I’m not concerned about health, climate, taste, culture, or even the animals in my newly discovered meat reduction. Let the critters be chopped up. Preferably quickly and efficiently. Why does everyone want to eat only happy animals? The unhappy ones would be much more worthwhile to be torn out of life. Then, at least, it would be over for them.

I can think of at most three reasons why I don’t have to think like a psychopathic Patrick all day long of roasted pigs, fried chicken, and freshly butchered cows just because I’ve stuffed myself with nothing but fruit, vegetables and cereals for a day.

First, I don’t give a shit about what I eat. I’ve long since reached a redemptive point in terms of nutrition, where the focus is on coffee. And everything else is second to seventh priority. Whether I’m shoving a veal cutlet in my mouth or some soy wheat bean mash-based alternative pudding, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all good—as long as it doesn’t make me throw up.

Second, it makes me feel better than everyone else. At least secretly. When I put the vegan cold cuts on the conveyor belt at the checkout and the guy behind me has his half a kilo of mixed mince for 2.99 dollars, I think to myself that I’m the more modern person of the two of us. Of course, I don’t tell him that. But I let him know it by placing the sliced, rancid sunflower seed porridge with shredded vegetables in it in such an optimal position that he can read what’s written there in big letters under the supermarket logo: I’m better than you!

Third, I am a follower. And that’s probably the most important reason of all. You just have to tell me certain things often enough, and eventually, I’ll believe them. When I watch more or less secret recordings of some redneck slaughterhouses, where chickens are trampled, piglets are castrated, and cows are mistreated, then it has at most a short-term effect on me. But the more often I witness such things, the more I think to myself: Okay, okay, from now on more cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes should suffer. I get it.

A few years ago, I wrote an insanely important literary text with the brilliant title Vegetarians, fuck you! Meat is for eating, in which I vehemently defended my desire for dead animals. And when I read through this, you can’t call it anything else, philosophical masterpiece, I actually continue to stand by everything I wrote back then. Especially the first three words of the headline are still very close to my heart.

But I have learned in recent months that it is extremely important to try something new and only then decide whether you want to continue on this path—or not. After all, we live in a time that often seems overwhelming and thus equally depressing due to its countless possibilities, but on the other hand, it has never been made easier for us to simply dare to do something different and thereby develop an eclectic view of the world, society and, hopefully, ourselves.

By the way, before any militant vegetarians or even, God forbid, vegans celebrate me now for being the first person on this planet who has at least somewhat reduced his meat consumption, I would like to clarify something. Because I have three more than important rules with this newly discovered life feeling, which I use myself to keep almost rigorously.

First, although I actively do not buy meat and sausage produced from cattle, pigs, chickens, turkeys or, what do I know, monkeys. But I do eat these products when they are offered to me somewhere. For example, when people invite me to eat. The reason is that a little meat can’t hurt. Possibly to prevent some ominous nutritional deficiency. Besides, I assume that this meat, in restaurants or at people’s homes, is of higher quality than when I get a bag of frozen Chicken McNuggets at Aldi.

Secondly, I am not a vegan. It doesn’t matter if it’s milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, eggs, honey, or whatever else you can squeeze out of the critter: It ends up in my mouth. I don’t feel like giving up eighty percent of all food just because, for whatever reason, it contains milk proteins, has been filtered through some fish bladders, or once a chicken egg flew past it. Give it a bone! That amount of boomer mentality is necessary.

Third, I eat fish. Ha! I can already see the surprised look on your face. I love fish. Salmon, pike perch, dorado, trout, halibut, herring, scampi, tuna, clams, crabs, eel, squid, cod, mackerel, plaice, oysters, shrimp, and sardines. Whatever is crawling around in the sea, I will find it, catch it, and inhale it on the spot. And you can send me as many links as you want to some pseudo-scandalous documentaries in which seventy thousand fish have to spend the rest of their lives squeezed into a rain barrel, just so I can slap them on my sushi: I don’t care.

As I write this, I’m stuffing myself with a cheese sandwich with the last vegan salami slice that was still lying around somewhere at home, and I just can’t find a reason why I should have bought the ones with cows, pigs, or horses in them instead. But maybe this is just the beginning of my journey. Possibly I will eventually evolve into a higher being who can live on nothing but sun, air, and coffee. And probably only then would I be truly satisfied with myself and the world.

Terror of the Underworld:

When Arano steps out of the station in Shibuya, his fate is already sealed. The young man came to Tokyo to make his dreams come true: he wants knives to rain down—preferably into the hearts of the Yakuza, toward whom he harbors an inexplicable and ruthless hatred. There are too many superfluous elements in this world, is the credo he keeps murmuring to himself.

Before long, the otherwise rather taciturn Arano, played by Chihara Junia, finds himself caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and, amid the chaos, befriends the club owner Kamijo, portrayed by Onimaru, as well as the outspoken skater Alice, brought to life by Rin Ozawa. Yet the fragile bonds he forms are quickly torn apart again by greed, revenge, and arrogance.

The film Pornostar, released in 1998, is the debut work of Japanese director Toshiaki Toyoda and can at least not claim one thing: to be normal. Somewhere between drama, thriller, and gangster film—and with a bucket of stage blood thrown in—a hint of a love story even begins to grow, all within the restless backdrop of a Tokyo on the brink of the new millennium.

Pornostar is full of blood, violence, and death. And yet all of this unfolds almost matter-of-factly, incidentally, and with such raw craftsmanship that one almost feels as if sitting in the same room, witnessing one human life after another being extinguished—only to end up back out on the street afterward with a cigarette in one’s mouth, blowing one’s hard-earned yen in the nearest arcade.

The film lacks sympathetic characters with whom one might identify. Arano’s motive for wanting to cleanse the world of the Yakuza can be sensed, but for the most part it remains hidden from the viewer. Kamijo’s fateful step into the clutches of the underworld happens just as casually as the final meeting with Alice, who, of all the characters, might have represented a possible way out for Arano and his dream of raining knives.

But perhaps it is precisely this narrative flaw that makes Pornostar so special. Perhaps one does not even want these people to find happiness. Why should they? They chose of their own free will to take part in this cruel game of the underworld. Perhaps they practically deserve Arano as an avenging angel. And perhaps he too, with the first murder, plunges himself into an abyss from which there can be no escape.

In fact, Pornostar reminded me of the film Love & Pop by Hideaki Anno, which was released the same year—without sharing any other similarity beyond the fact that both are set in the same city. Yet the raw, almost documentary-style filmmaking of both directors could be seen as two sides of the same coin. Only that one side is filled with misbehaving schoolgirls, and the other is… well… filled with blood.

Anyone who watches Pornostar expecting to feel satisfied, inspired, or even happy by the end is mistaken. The film takes no prisoners—quite the opposite. One might wish for one or another character to experience the Grand Summer of Love on Fiji and blissfully slide into the year 2000, but as the Bible already says: For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. And in this heartless world, defying that sacred prophecy seems almost impossible.

I Only Dreamed of You:

Mima Kirigoe is ready to leave her career as a celebrated pop idol behind and pursue a dazzling future as an actress. However, shedding her former image proves far more difficult than she ever imagined, and the dark world of show business threatens to drag her into the depths of despair.

Is Mima able to keep a firm grasp on the things that define her while the strains of her new career path take their toll and a menacing presence from her pop-star past lurks in the background? And as delusions, fiction, and reality begin to blur in her mind, what is it that truly defines her in the first place?

Without a doubt, the 1997 film Perfect Blue by Satoshi Kon, based on the novel of the same name by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, is one of those anime you must see before you die. And just last night, I was finally able to cross that very point off my bucket list. What begins as a story about a starlet and her stalker becomes increasingly entangled with each successive scene in a web of shattered dreams and dubious memories.

As an enthralled viewer, you break through one meta-layer after another with each of Mima’s thoughts—only to be utterly drained in the end by the torrent of psychotic impressions that has just washed over you. Who is Mima? Where is Mima? And above all: why is Mima?

Step by step, you witness how the initially sweet, cheerful, and naïve Mima is cast into a hell of depression, murder, and rape. Who can be trusted—and who cannot? When do you stop being yourself? And in the end, which decision was right—and which was wrong?

Perfect Blue is a visually striking and, thanks to Masahiro Ikumi’s fantastic soundtrack, sonically powerful journey into the deepest abysses of the human soul. The film shows that hope and despair are often separated by nothing more than a single unintended step, and that truth is frequently nothing more than a long-forgotten thought that may once have existed but was quietly replaced by fear, panic, and the longing for a redeeming answer.

The Pop Terrorists:

While the whole world celebrates South Korea’s cultural boom and it seems like half my classmates are studying abroad in the country’s colorful capital because of it, we must remember a unique collective alongside veterans like Blackpink, Red Velvet, and BTS, and newcomers like Ive, Le Sserafim, and NewJeans: Balming Tiger, the quirky pioneers of Seoul’s idiosyncratic rap scene.

This special group is a blend of multimedia outsiders who throw K-pop from its glittery, polished world into the underground. Imagine Girls’ Generation meets Brockhampton, or Keith Ape meets Abra. I’m hoping to see them live soon, because that would be more than amazing.

Balming Tiger, the self-proclaimed multinational alternative K-pop band, aims to conquer our boring world with their unorthodox style. The collective consists of performers Omega Sapien, Sogumm, BJ Wnjn, and Mudd the Student, producers San Yawn and Unsinkable, video directors Jan’ Qui and Leesuho, visual artist Chanhee Hong, DJ Abyss, and writer Henson Hwang.

Each artist in this ensemble brings a distinct artistic identity and energy, showcasing a broad range of versatility. They approach music with a focus on diversity rather than adhering to a single genre. I especially love Sogumm’s soulful additions to the group’s artistic repertory.

Named after the infamous Asian Tiger Balm ointment, the band’s core creative vision is to reflect and represent the current young generation. Their music is a call to trust in our collective selves, move forward, and embrace love.

Their debut album January Never Dies, along with their first extended play and other works, are vibrant expressions of today’s hyper-expressive Asian youth, drawing from a wide array of Western influences in hip-hop, electronic, and alternative genres.

Songs like Sexy Nukem, Just Fun, and Loop? are as original as they are diverse, appealing even to those listeners who might be skeptical about the aggressive South Korean pop wave.

Don’t Stop Shooting!:

I finally watched Shinichiro Ueda’s 2017 film One Cut of the Dead the other day. And what can I say? It is, as anyone who has seen it can attest, absolutely fantastic. The big problem is that I really shouldn’t reveal anything about it, not even the genre, because otherwise I strip away all the fun.

Only this much: One Cut of the Dead opens in a run-down, abandoned warehouse where a small film crew is in the middle of shooting a zombie picture… But of course it’s not an ordinary warehouse. Rumor has it that military experiments were carried out here… on human beings! Then, as if from nowhere, real zombies suddenly appear and terrorize the crew. A bloody struggle for survival begins…

What sounds like off-the-shelf junk from the recycling bin turns into one of the most entertaining indie films in recent years, half an hour in. Born in 1984, the same year as me, Shinichiro Ueda succeeds in playing with the audience’s expectations and, in one fell swoop, swings the mood of the entire film around so abruptly that I no longer know what’s up, what’s down, or where front and back even are.

The shift isn’t just clever, it’s brazen, gleeful, and meticulously prepared. Choices that first read as mistakes reassemble into punch lines and reveals. From that point on, the movie’s confidence is unmistakable, and I watch, grinning, as it keeps tightening screws I didn’t realize were there.

One Cut of the Dead lives on the goofs, mishaps, and blunders during the shoot, and on the fact that, while watching those legendary thirty minutes for the first time, I was thinking exactly the things that later suddenly make sense. That some scenes run far too long, that the actors often stare off in arbitrary directions, that the action sometimes unfolds entirely outside the frame. I’d say that, deep down,

One Cut of the Dead is a film about family—for reasons that, of course, only reveal themselves at the end. At the very least, Ueda’s work is full of surprises and grows not only funnier by the minute but also more coherent. If you want to escape the same old mush for nearly two hours, this zombie splatterfest has you covered. Don’t stop shooting!

Rebellious Girls:

The Japanese music label Wack, itself belonging to the J-pop giant Avex, is famous for its eccentric groups, among them BiSH, EMPiRE, and Gang Parade.

Founded in 2014 by Junnosuke Watanabe, the company declared a clear mission: To offer a proper stage to artists who are a little more experimental, a little stranger, and not immediately comfortable inside conventional idol frameworks. Crucially, that support doesn’t mean indifference to results.

Even while foregrounding otherness and odd textures, Wack aims its performers toward success and plans their activities with that outcome in mind. The label’s identity sits between provocation and pragmatism, pairing freedom to try unusual ideas with careful presentation and smart promotion so that unorthodox performers can still reach large audiences across Japan.

ASP is one of Wack’s newer workhorses, arriving at a moment when the label has to reorient after the breakup of the exceptional unit BiSH.

To keep up in Japan’s fiercely competitive music market, the group now opens itself even more to alternative directions, trying approaches that are off to the side of mainstream idol pop while still jostling for attention.

Their first album bore a telling, tone-setting title Anal Sex Penis, which makes plain how seriously they take themselves: not at all.

The provocation operates like a wink and a shrug, announcing a willingness to poke at taboos and to laugh at expectations, even as the underlying aim, to succeed within that crowded field, remains in view. From the outset, the band signaled that irreverence was part of their method.

The lineup, Yumeka Nowkana, Nameless, Mog Ryan, Matilder Twins, Wonker Twins, CCCCCC, and Riontown, cheerfully kicks at the fixed rules laid down by their predecessors, especially in live performances, where expectations are treated with irreverence.

Yet they never completely hide what they are at heart: a cast pop-punk band full of shy girls who from time to time prefer to strike quieter, more reflective notes, like in I Won’t Let You Go, my personal favorite.

That mix of brashness and modesty, of noise and pause, shapes ASP’s character. Precisely this seemingly paradoxical spectrum sets them apart from the competition and gives them an unusual opportunity to extend their otherwise rather short half-life, in contrast to the countless peers whose momentum fades quickly in the same crowded, fast-moving idol environment. It keeps curiosity alive while allowing growth without abandoning their origin.

Four Sisters and a Funeral:

The three sisters Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika live together in a large old house in the Japanese coastal city of Kamakura. When they learn of the death of their estranged father, they decide to travel to the countryside for his funeral.

There, they meet their shy half-sister Suzu for the first time. They quickly grow fond of her and invite her to live with them. Suzu happily agrees and begins a new life with her older sisters.

In Hirokazu Kore-eda’s movie Our Little Sister, set against the vivid backdrop of Kamakura’s changing seasons, the four sisters navigate the full spectrum of human emotion and sustain one another through life’s trials, forging a profoundly intimate bond.

Against the backdrop of the summer ocean sparkling in the sunlight, the glowing autumn leaves, an avenue of magnificent yet fleeting cherry blossom trees, hydrangeas dampened by the rainy season, and a brilliant fireworks display announcing the arrival of a new summer, their moving and deeply relatable story portrays the irreplaceable moments that make up a true family.

Accompanied by the wonderful music of the legendary composer Yoko Kanno—who previously created soundtracks for works such as Tokyo Sora, Petal Dance, and Kamikaze Girls—the audience shares in the sisters’ emotions and challenges in every scene. Every touch of the piano keys carries meaning; every stroke of the violin tells a story.

Our Little Sister is an airy, gentle yet sorrow-tinged drama about people in different stages of life who, though marked by the past, refuse to let it dictate their fate. Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika do not hesitate for a second to take in their young half-sister Suzu and offer her the family she never had.

And when the four young women stand on the beach after yet another trial, laughing as they gaze into the distance, one feels grateful to have met them and the other residents of the small town—to have shared in both the joyful and sorrowful changes.

I hope that the future of the four sisters will shine as brightly as the small fireworks display that had only moments before illuminated the overgrown garden of the large old house.

The Pointless Love:

As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that happens to come to mind. The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.

The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise so clear air. I only watch her go for a brief moment; I can’t bear the sight—and the cold that gradually embraces me—any longer. I open the heavy glass door and step once more into the building bursting with other people’s dreams, which over the past months has turned into our refuge from the usually loud, chaotic world outside, seemingly abandoned by all good spirits.

I deliberately want to miss the moment when she disappears completely behind the walls. Maybe because deep down I really am a coward, and this way it takes longer to sink in that without her, here in these light-flooded halls, it’s quite lonely.

There is no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. Perhaps because there are simply too many differences between myself and the one on the other side. Because the girl of my affection already has someone who occupies the position I’d like to hold myself. Or because the girl I keep thinking about, at the most impossible times—maybe even constantly—simply doesn’t share the same emotions I so vulnerably hold out to her. And if things go really badly, then all of these points apply at once and hit me all the harder.

One almost insurmountable truth seems certain: this love makes no sense, has no future, and therefore no value. And there’s nothing I can do to change that, no matter how much I turn it over in my mind or wish it were otherwise.

With all my might, I try to find objective arguments for why it would be far more logical if I didn’t feel any affection for the shamelessly grinning person opposite me. But no matter how meticulously I search for them, they simply don’t exist—anywhere.

The lists, tables, and diagrams of negative reasons remain empty again today—as always. Because there’s absolutely nothing that argues against wanting to immerse myself in this body that seems almost ready to burst with different talents.

How could one possibly resist the sober, disarming, and sharp-witted charm of this girl? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s cheeky. She always has a stupid quip at the ready, either glows with energy or sinks apathetically into her thoughts, and every time I talk to her she opens up like a human incarnation of a lucky bag full of interesting stories.

Her manner flows seamlessly from brazen brat to motivating muse, without entirely dispensing with rules, guidelines, and socially relevant conventions. At heart, she’s one of the good ones—no matter how much she sometimes tries to conceal that with her abrasive ways and loose tongue.

I collect every new detail of her life like puzzle pieces scattered all over the globe, which, piece by piece, assemble into a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map I can use to orient myself as I discover still more adventures, memories, and inspirations.

Then I sit there, listen, marvel, and travel back with her once more to those fateful moments that made her the—quite literally—wonderful personality she is today.

And no matter how great, meaningful, or varied I may consider my own existence, it’s nothing compared to the plays unfolding before my mind’s eye. I watch, transfixed, and can only gape in astonishment.

This pointless love is not a shock, not a jolt, not an earthquake. It gnaws at me, always a little—sometimes more, sometimes less. Usually in situations when I least expect it, or when I catch sight again of a certain smile shaped by the experiences of a young but exciting life. For a brief moment I am happy, only to remember shortly afterward that there was a reason my heart would soon feel a little heavier again.

Yet contrary to appearances, this pointless love is not an ominous feeling—quite the opposite. Far more bleak would be to deny myself this emotion from the outset. For the fact that I can feel this pointless love anywhere at all in my stunted, empathy-stripped soul is proof that I haven’t completely closed myself off from the world, that I’m not yet dead inside, that there’s still hope I won’t someday drown irretrievably in my minimalist melancholy.

As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that comes to mind. There are no lies hidden in my words, no mockery, and no false expectations. I am fully aware of the position from which I’m almost shouting after her, and that her small world is already fully occupied by figures I can neither replace nor wish to.

The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.

The only hope rests on a future in which I may continue to follow that pretty face and listen to its stories. After all, our time together is limited. But the psychologically perhaps not entirely sound fact that other people bore me or even get on my nerves after the shortest time, while this girl does not, is sometimes so new, so rare, so unusual that I simply can’t help staying close to her and waiting with curiosity to see what might still come.

Of course, I have to be careful not to fall into the same traps so many others have fallen into before me. Because unrequited affection can tip over in the blink of an eye, leaving me not only with the sad certainty of an unfulfilled romance but also standing amid the ruins of a friendship turned to dust and ash. And I should obviously avoid that at all costs; otherwise this depressing journey will end not only empty-handed, but with a wounded soul as well.

There’s no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. And yet, secretly, I’m a little glad about it. Because it also says a great deal about me and the path I have taken so far.

After all, this emotion, classified as negative from the very beginning, can—with a different perspective—transform in no time into a veritable treasure trove of consciousness-expanding ideas. I just have to draw the right conclusions from it and must not act according to outdated patterns of thought.

This pointless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can draw insights, gather inspiration, and gain a lesson or two about myself and others. It gives me the opportunity to enrich my own life with the experiences of the girl, which she shares so trustingly.

I should by no means close myself off to this chance—on the contrary, I should face it as open-heartedly as possible. Even if, or perhaps precisely because, I will probably never reach the actual goal: becoming a part of the world of the one to whom this pointless love is directed.

But hope—no matter how small, feeble, or unrealistic it may be—is known to die last. And sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this usually so loud, chaotic world abandoned by all good spirits that waits for me out there, beyond these light-flooded halls.

God Is Chill:

To live up to my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness, I of course don’t want to withhold how my first semester in the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences went. After all, we’ve just received the grades for our exams. And let’s put it this way: it went better than expected. Really.

It borders on an organizational miracle that I survived the scientific area so unscathed. Maybe the evening group prayers with my fellow students via one or two text messages actually did help after all. And that despite having learned that you should never demand anything from God, only ask politely. And also: if you only turn to God in a crisis but don’t think of him when things are going well, then he’s first busy forgiving you before he helps you. But apparently God is more laid-back than one might think. So, in that sense: thx. And: lots of love.

Of course, I didn’t miss out on a clichéd bit of fun: trying to crash the university’s online administration server with one reload after another until the grades finally became visible. But it didn’t work. Probably I should have reloaded not every five minutes, but every five seconds. Oh well—now I know for next time.

My lawyer, by the way, advises me to make it clear at this point that I will not attempt to crash the university’s server—or any other server, or anything else in this world—in any way whatsoever. Neither intentionally nor accidentally. These days, you can never be too careful. Many thanks to Mr. Goldberg of the law firm Goldberg and Partners. Props where props are due.

I’m quite satisfied with the results of my first semester, but I’m also aware that I’ll only manage the coming years if I cram the material into my head more consistently, more regularly, and with far more commitment. With the right mix of Anki, repetition, and the Pomodoro technique. At least those are the three strategies I plan to focus on. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. What do I know about proper studying anyway.

I’ve also realized something else—something I hadn’t definitively decided at the beginning of my studies: which degree I want to pursue. Bachelor of Arts or Bachelor of Science. We have to know by the third semester.

But if the computer science exam offers even a small glimpse of what’s still to come, then I will cling to the Bachelor of Arts with all my might. Because otherwise I might end up standing there empty-handed. After all, good and bad art can always somehow be argued for—but computer science is like a killer robot gone out of control. It knows no mercy, only zeros and ones. Pass or fail. Life or death. And I know which side I’d be on.

Apart from that, I can say that the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is a lot of fun, very varied, and should be interesting for anyone who feels reasonably at home in both the artistic and the technical worlds.

A large part of the entertainment value also comes, of course, from the fellow students with whom you battle through lectures, practicals, and exams—but that’s probably the case in any degree program. And in that respect, I’ve been really lucky. Shout-outs to Group C, which a perhaps slightly too clever person rightly described as those who always sat in the back row at school.

Unfortunately, I can no longer claim to be a freshman. This very time-limited term, in combination with my not-quite-so-dewy person, had always caused wide eyes and the occasional stammer in people standing opposite me.

In any case, I’m curious to see what new adventures await us in the second semester, and I’ll be spending the next few weeks reviewing the fundamentals of programming so that I can also pass the postponed exam successfully. Hopefully. But at least I’m not the only one who hasn’t yet managed to get this topic behind them—for whatever reasons.

And with that, we close another chapter of my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness. I hope you’ll join me again next time as the more or less exciting journey of Marcel Winatschek as a student continues.

Will he crash a certain server? Will he be the first person to be awarded a master’s degree in the second semester because he is finally recognized as the global genius he always claimed to be? So handsome, so smart, and yet so modest. Or will he be exmatriculated because the glass buildings of the university simply aren’t fireproof enough for him and his—let’s call them—accidents? Stay tuned; we’ll know more soon. Hooray.

A Single Moment:

Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, even the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Just a second ago I was laughing, content with my life because, for once, something had finally worked out the way I had always wished it would, or at least I had no reason, for a change, to hate the world and every single person in it. And then, a second later, I plunge back into the same old, worn-out abyss from which it becomes a little harder to climb out every time.

Then there seems to be no gray, no gradations. Only black and white. I am either saturated with the pure joy of eternal existence, or nothing has any meaning and it would be better if I disappeared from the face of the earth right here and now, because then I wouldn’t have to think anymore about why, for God’s sake, everything was shit again—even though just a few minutes ago it had been going so well. There is nothing in between. No rope, no safety net. I either soar or I crash.

What I had just considered secure, good, and immune to negative thoughts is suddenly put back on trial. I start to brood. To doubt. To question everything I had already regarded as settled. Mistrust then envelops me like a leaden cloak that wraps itself smoothly around my body and slowly presses me down to the ground—where, apparently, I belong.

Was that comment this morning really meant kindly? The emphasis was a bit too ironic, the accompanying look just a little too mocking. Is it possible that everything this person has ever said to me and about me wasn’t meant seriously at all? Is there any proof that we actually get along well? He’s probably just making a fool of me. Because in the end he’s just like everyone else. And I have no choice but to see through him before it’s too late—for whatever that might mean.

Often it’s enough if the other person doesn’t immediately reply to a supposedly totally casual, funny WhatsApp message that is definitely not dripping with self-doubt. No one could have guessed that the spontaneous-sounding remark had been painstakingly crafted over hours in a specially opened word-processing document and adorned with the perfect mix of emojis, punctuation, and colloquial touches to come across as humanly normal as possible when I finally send it at the optimally calculated time. After all, not everyone is such a complete psychopath as I am.

Then I suddenly find myself back on the same roller coaster as thousands of times before, with the familiar loops of thought that I keep trying to break—of course without success. Because in every mental decision I stubbornly take the same directions I have always chosen. As if I had learned absolutely nothing since the last collapse. And that, even though I had sworn to myself that next time everything would be better—or at least different.

So once again I rattle through all the stations of inner turmoil in my little, rusty cart of questionable metaphors and at the end of the ride arrive at the one single true realization I have always arrived at: that I am not worth it—whatever it is that happens to matter to me at that moment.

I am not worth having friends. I am not worth experiencing love. I am not worth being attractive. I am not worth being taken seriously. I am not worth being successful. I am not worth being an equal. I am not worth being allowed to be happy. Everyone else is worthy—just not me.

But I should have known that from the start. Why had I even bothered to build up hopes in the form of this fragile house of cards when it was obvious that the slightest gust of wind would make everything collapse again? I could really have spared myself the effort. How foolish. If you won’t listen, you have to feel. Your own fault.

These extreme mood swings always come when I need them least. When I had finally made peace with myself, when I had found myself again, when the world wasn’t actually so bad. But no such luck. The world was bad. Really bad. It had conspired against the one person who simply wanted to find happiness. And that person was me.

Of course, it went without saying that I myself was responsible for the misery I had just thought myself into. As always, it was the others who were to blame. After all, I only wanted the best for myself, for them, for everyone. Didn’t they sense that? Didn’t they know that? Maybe I should have tried a little harder to convince them of my deeply good intentions…

Once I’ve hit the ground, I’m left with only two options: to remain there and come to terms with the bitter truth that I’m simply a bad person, or to reach upward again in the hope of somehow finding a way to change my fate carved in stone—however that might be possible.

Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Perhaps it’s impossible to defend myself against these external and internal influences. Perhaps they always hit me, and with such force that I no longer know which way is up or down. Like an enemy who knows me inside and out and always aims precisely at the most exposed weak spot. Which makes sense. Because that enemy is me—and no one else.

And yet perhaps I can set up mental safety nets in advance that will catch me when these mood swings take aim at me again. A bag full of good, safe thoughts that protect me from falling back into the familiar abyss. Comforting truths that remain valid even when everything else has fallen victim to despair. And a solid basic trust in myself—that despite my psychological shortcomings, I have worth. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for themselves will, hopefully, overcome even the greatest fears.

Literature for Sheep:

Japanese music is a collection of anthems for my own little messed-up world. Whether it reminds me of sad anime episodes, the churning background music in video games, heartbreak, or my first few moments at Narita airport, stepping through the Welcome to Japan banner into an universe of cultural, technological, and human wonder, J-pop and J-rock are always there for me.

They plug a little of the constant melancholy in my small, perpetually annoyed and bored heart. The energetic music of bands like Indigo la End, King Gnu, and Asian Kung-Fu Generation is a frequent soundtrack to my thoughts, worries, and desires. And so are Hitsujibungaku.

For decades, rock music from the Land of the Rising Sun was in a creative crisis. There was little sign of anarchy, change, or revolution. Artists in the genre seemed content to strum away as a copy of a copy of a copy, delivering a run-of-the-mill sound that, for good reasons, didn’t resonate outside Japan. They were simply too tame, too dull, and too boring, like rebels without hate—or even drugs.

Hitsujibungaku, however, also don’t aim for destruction, decline, or chaos—but that doesn’t really matter. Celebrated by the Japanese press as a smooth whirlwind, Hitsujibungaku, roughly translating to literature for sheep, quickly made their musical breakthrough.

Hitsujibungaku’s songs speak of the search for happiness, dancing in the moonlight, and dreams of an endless summer. When I hear Moeka Shiotsuka’s voice, accompanied by Yurika Kasai and Hiroa Fukuda, I know they mean what they play.

In a world full of unknowns, even if you pretend to be smart, you’ll still get hurt, she sings. At some point, you became focused on avoiding failure, giving up what you really want, without even knowing what that is. Not seeing it, overlooking it, becoming skilled only in despair. It’s a bit too early to decide it’s already too late. If anything is worth preserving in our superficial world, it’s this kind of emotional sincerity.

I Can Have Alone Time When I’m Dead:

When I started my studies, my biggest concern wasn’t the course material, the professors, or fears about what the hell I would do with my degree once I had it in my pocket, but rather how the other students would react to me. After all, at the end of my 30s, I was twice their age. Most of them could have been my children. Maybe they were. One or two faces did look familiar…

During the introductory week, my suspicion that I was the oldest person there was confirmed. By a long shot. Not just in my degree program, but generally within a 500-meter radius. Even the janitor was probably younger than me. And he was about to retire.

Should that have given me pause? Yes, perhaps. But now that I was here, I had to make the best of it. In any case, I was mentally preparing myself to spend the next few years in isolation at the senior citizens’ table, slurping porridge and philosophizing with myself about the good old days.

When MySpace was still the measure of all things. When I still had to rewind VHS tapes before returning them to the video store. When the song of the year was a techno remix of the Smurfs. Every Smurf loves to listen to the radio, full blast anyway. The rhythm crashes into every leg—that’s how dance music for Smurfs should be!

While the university president gave his third welcome speech of the day, and seemed just as enthusiastic as he had been during his first, the campus was packed with young people who were equally confused and nervous, scurrying back and forth.

Their T-shirts were decorated with more-or-less creative graduation slogans: 12 Years of Walk of Fame – The Stars Leave, the Fans Stay. And: Graduate Today, Captain Tomorrow. Or even: With Their High School Diplomas in Hand, Heroes Become Legends.

With so much concentrated youthfulness, I felt like throwing up. However, I had of course expected this sight beforehand. Because I’m extremely clever. What else could I have expected? Exactly. After all, these people were the norm here—not me. They were the crowd; I was the outsider.

Between the tours of the building, the city, and the room where the beer fridge was located, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Little by little, the uniform mass of more or less fashionably dressed bodies transformed into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.

I quickly realized that they were just normal people, each with their own fears, hopes, and dreams. And they were all as excited as I was—if not more so—just for different reasons.

A week full of get-to-know-you tours, various house parties, and a boozy study trip to the Bavarian Forest later, I no longer felt any fear of not being able to fit in because of my advanced age. When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar faces were already beaming at me. Hey, Marcel! I heard someone call cheerfully from one of the tables.

I grinned back, followed the lively crowd, and sat down in a free seat among my new companions. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Jenny is the pothead, Tim is the farting guy, and Fiona is the one who got plowed in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from strange students—no, everyone has their own baggage to carry, in one way or another.

The key to happiness in this case is unconditional openness and a positive attitude—no matter how difficult that may be at times. Being part of a group means being aware of my possibly not-so-glorious shortcomings and taking it with humor when they are in the spotlight. The important thing is to have a good line ready to keep the wheel turning and shift the focus to the next person. It’s a game I only lose if I don’t participate.

Since that fateful first week, hundreds of encounters have blossomed into friendships that have taken me all over the city—to various apartments, clubs, and bars. No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from my degree program, the student council, and the courses I took, but also from friends, roommates, and acquaintances who didn’t shy away from me because of my differences but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives.

Of course, I still have to listen to the occasional stupid comment. But that’s part of it. Today, it’s completely normal for me to walk the streets with them, exchange stories, create memories, and delay the morning a little longer. I’m happy to learn more about those who confide in me, to support them with advice, action, and some jokes, and to help them solve one problem or another conscientiously—provided they want that at all.

If you think you hate people, that you don’t need anyone but yourself, that you’re better off closing yourself off from everything and everyone, then you need to pack your bags, set your old life on fire, and go somewhere else. With new people, new opportunities, and new adventures. And as quickly as possible.

Of course, these relationships are not permanent either. I will soon forget many names, faces, and encounters. And they will forget me. Because they have moved on. Or because I have taken a different path. And that’s perfectly fine. Because new people will come into my life again, over and over, as long as I make it possible, in whatever way I can. Some of them will stay—for longer, maybe even forever.

But these opportunities only arise if you don’t nip every conceivable contact in the bud just because you’ve convinced yourself at some point that you’re happier alone. Out of fear, out of pain, out of feeling overwhelmed. Because no matter how strong you think you are in this matter, at some point you will break down. And then it will be too late.

As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment door, shouting loudly and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, to grab a few more beers to go, I glance briefly down the brightly lit street. New people are streaming through it, and in the buildings people are laughing, singing, and dancing.

Right now, at this moment, I am part of this backdrop, this ensemble, these stories. Because I took a chance and didn’t close myself off to the unknown, even though that would have been so much easier. Because one thing is certain: I can have alone time when I’m dead.

The Boy and the Murderer:

Mr. Long is not a man of many words. In fact, he hardly speaks at all. His talents lie more in… let’s say… practical work. Mr. Long is a Taiwanese contract killer. One of the good kind—someone who doesn’t ask questions when you give him a place, a time, and a target. Mr. Long simply does what needs to be done. And he’s pretty good at it. Usually.

After his assignment to kill a Yakuza boss goes terribly wrong, Mr. Long, played by Chen Chang, finds himself stranded in a remote Japanese town. With only five days to scrape together the money for his journey home, he receives unexpected help from a little boy named Jun, portrayed by Junyin Bai, and from the unsuspecting townspeople who have fallen in love with his culinary talents. With a makeshift food stand set up by his new friends, he begins cooking and selling Taiwanese noodle soup in front of the local Buddhist temple.

Trouble catches up with this unusual group when a drug dealer tracks down Jun’s mother Lily, brought to life by Yiti Yao, and through her eventually finds Mr. Long as well. Yet despite the inevitable confrontation with his violent past, Mr. Long will find it difficult to give up his new life.

A cold-hearted hitman is showered with altruistic love and forced to surrender to it. The Japanese director Sabu masters the art of blending the ordinary with the unexpected. With a sly touch, he sends his protagonists into unfamiliar territory that expands both their minds and their hearts. Mr. Long shows me that happiness can be found in the most unlikely places.

Mr. Long is difficult to assign to a single genre. With this film, Sabu created a drama whose unexpected moments are amusing, tragic, and shocking all at once—often at times when I least expect it. Just when I think I’ve figured the film out, around the next corner there’s either a clown, a chopped onion, or a knife that can hardly wait to strike again.

I wish for a happy ending for Mr. Long, Jun, and Lily—a place where the three of them can be happy and left alone by the merciless world. But the past of this small patchwork family catches up with them just when I’ve finally stopped resisting the tears welling up in my eyes.

In the end, I myself turn into one of those dreadful cliché viewers who laugh and cry at the same time—and I don’t even care. When Mr. Long looks out the café window to the other side of the street and his life suddenly gains a new meaning, I’m simply glad to have accompanied him on his turbulent journey of few words.

Feelings Without a Name:

In the most unexpected situations, I encounter girls whose sheer existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not as if I’m overwhelmed by love, hate, or pity, because the tentative affection I feel for the girl on the other side doesn’t fit into the emotional templates into which I’ve almost instinctively pressed all my previous encounters.

It’s not love, because I’m not consumed by jealousy, desire, or grief. It’s not hate, because I finally feel a touch of empathy again. I’m happy when the girl is happy, and sad when the girl is sad. And it’s not pity, because any supposed fragility I see in the girl is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies.

The more interesting I find a girl, the more I naturally want to learn about her. Even the smallest banalities that no one else is aware of—perhaps not even the girl in the spotlight—become significant, important, even overrated.

What kind of music does she listen to? What clothes does she wear? How exactly did she become the collection of ideas, ideals, and identities that she is today? And what would I even do with the answers to these questions? The incomprehensibility of otherness can drive me mad if I’m not careful.

Not only can I find no definition for my own feelings, I can’t even manage to pigeonhole the girl into neat categories. Every encounter brings new insights, and I feel compelled to shatter the theories I carved in stone the day before.

Then the floor, littered with dust and debris, bears witness to the fact that the irrefutable knowledge of human nature—which I had been convinced of all these years—was worth about as much as the time I wasted trying to find answers to questions that may not even exist. After all, not even the girl in whom I suspect this enlightenment knows of its existence.

Perhaps I project too much onto the girl. Perhaps there’s nothing there. Perhaps she’s just a normal girl who simply wants to come to terms with herself and the world around her and already has enough to deal with.

Maybe I’m just imagining that I’m a little infatuated with her and her supposed secrets because it allows me to ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. After all, I can only receive my own happiness once I’ve figured out how the girl defines happiness. Reality can wait for me until then.

I rack my brains trying to figure out exactly what feeling I’m experiencing. Because if I could come up with a name for it—a definition—it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it behind me, to come to terms with it. I’m not even sure if what’s buzzing around in my head is a real feeling at all, or if it’s just my imagination because I have too much time to think again.

The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to fully engage with. So I carry it around with me out of slowly creeping habit and wait almost anxiously for the moment when it knocks on the door of my chaotic world of thoughts again—usually when the mischievously smiling face that first led me down this strange path, in the truest sense of the word, enters the room.

But perhaps this gap in my own emotional spectrum is also sad proof that I’ve lived my life so far in a predetermined manner, in which even my feelings were copies of copies of copies—from television, from books, from the lies of society. Their names are rules—no, almost laws—for how I should behave when I stumble into one of these feelings.

Do I feel love? Then I despise the relationship the girl is in, burst with jealousy when she even looks at someone else, and cry alone at night, masturbating into my pillow, because I will never be part of her colorful world.

Do I feel hatred? Then I turn the girl’s life into a hell on earth, set fire to her pet, her family, and her entire apartment building, spin the threads of manipulation so skillfully that she ends up collapsing in the street, screaming, because life no longer has any meaning.

Do I feel pity? Then I turn myself into a more or less invisible guardian angel who will do anything to ensure that the victim of my favor never, ever suffers harm again—and I make sure to feel really good and great and important about myself while I’m doing it, because otherwise it all makes no sense.

In the end, it’s all about me and no one else. Just like always. What’s the point of helping someone else if I can’t reap the rewards? Exactly. The worst thing about this nameless feeling is that I may not even have a right to it.

After all, there are far more important people in the life of the girl I want to impose my worn-out template on. I’m nothing more than a fleeting minor character whose stage appearance is so brief that I’m not even explicitly mentioned in the script—at most, perhaps, as a passerby, spectator, or guy no. 5.

But perhaps this insight is enough to make peace with the nameless feeling. Maybe it makes no sense to find meaning in it, because it’s not permanent and can disappear as quickly as it came—at the latest when the girl whose accessible gaze triggered it in the first place has moved on.

On to new scenes, people, stories. While I myself linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, watching the silhouette that once smiled so disarmingly, only to forget shortly afterwards that the nameless feeling ever existed.

A Student for Life:

After the more or less sudden end of , I felt lost. For fifteen years, I had put all my energy into a project that was full of fun, passion, and hope at the beginning, but by the end had become nothing more than a slowly fading burden. When the bright lettering finally disappeared, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I sank into idleness, the days just passing me by. Was today Tuesday or already Friday? February or September? What year was it anyway? I couldn’t bring myself to do anything productive anymore and spent days, weeks, and months going for walks, watching TV shows, and going through depressive phases where I just lay there, switching between scrolling through Reddit, YouTube, and Pornhub. From sunrise to sunset. And vice versa.

In my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What else was there to look forward to? Except maybe a heart attack caused by too many frozen pizzas and too little exercise. The only things that kept me alive were the voice messages from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at that point; the programming course I was forced to take by the employment office so that I would at least be busy with something; and the fact that I was far too lazy to commit suicide.

On a much too hot summer day in June, I took the cheap ticket to nearby Munich to run around in circles and listen to a few podcasts. After all, I knew the streets of my hometown so well that they were getting on my nerves. At least there was life in Munich, even if there was none left inside me.

After buying a picture book about Japanese pop culture in a bookstore—because that was the only topic that still interested me even remotely—I sat down on a free bench on my way back to the city center to leaf through it a little and, at the same time, press the ice-cold can of Diet Coke I had bought at the nearby supermarket to my mouth. Its contents had been my main source of nutrition for several weeks—after all, I didn’t want to get any fatter.

When I looked up, I noticed that the bench I was sitting on was in front of the city university. Young people were buzzing all over the grounds, chatting and laughing. Some were in a hurry; others were sitting on the grass. There was a lively atmosphere. The large buildings watched over the small, mostly hectic figures whose futures would be shaped within them.

The setting reminded me of TV shows such as Gilmore Girls, Community, and Greek, and I found it a little sad that I had never had the opportunity to lead what was surely a pretty exciting student life.

My secondary school diploma wasn’t good enough for that, and after completing my training as a media designer, I had simply ignored the option of being allowed to study. After all, I wanted to earn money. With . And that would undoubtedly live forever and soon become an international media empire. Like Vice. Or the New York Times. Or Russia Today, for that matter. Who needed a degree?

So there I was, in my late 30s, sitting on this bench with nothing but a book and a can of Diet Coke to my name, feeling sorry for myself. Two young women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had just registered in time for the entrance exam for the coming winter semester. The brunette was a little overly surprised. I hope she gets accepted! She definitely will!

When I got home, I became interested in what I could have studied with the qualifications I had gained through my vocational training. Communication Design was listed. Graphic Design. Interactive Media.

I was a little annoyed that I hadn’t taken advantage of this opportunity, but had instead been so stubborn as to consistently ignore any path that led me away from my very own trip. At the time, I was even proud of that stubbornness.

While lethargically clicking around on the internet, I came across the website of the Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, which had been offering a combination of design and computer science in its Interactive Media program for several years and advertised it with flowery words.

The program sounded like a colorful grab bag of everything I enjoyed. Designing. Programming. I would even learn how to create video games. It was pure madness.

Before I could sink back into self-pity over never having taken advantage of this opportunity, a date caught my eye. There was still one week left to apply for the program. The admission requirements stated that not only a high school diploma but also a vocational qualification would be sufficient—provided that I passed the necessary entrance exam.

I took a sip from my seventh can of Diet Coke that day, thought for a moment, and filled out the linked application form. I can give it a try, became my motto from that day on. After that, everything happened very quickly.

I was invited to take the entrance exam, which I passed. I was invited to an interview, which I passed. I was sent the application for enrollment, which I submitted on time. At the beginning of October, I entered the campus of Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, sat down in a lecture hall for the first time, and suddenly I was a student.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life would be over by the time I reached my late 30s—that there was nothing more to come, that all my dreams had been dreamed and all my hopes buried. Suddenly, I found myself in a completely new story, with new goals, new tasks, and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun—after all, I’m a student for life.

Men Who Stare at Streets:

Yusuke looks out of the window. Accompanied by the voice of his deceased wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t notice that there is another person sitting in the red Saab 900 Turbo in front of him as he fills in the gaps in the sentences with his own words. Misaki will soon drive him to a place where he can finally find himself.

Last night, I saw Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car for the second time. The Oscar-winning Best International Feature Film is based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women and tells the story of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen—least of all themselves.

Yusuke is a successful stage actor and director who is married to the mysterious Oto, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto suddenly dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he could not really understand her—nor did he want to.

Two years later, still struggling with Oto’s death, Yusuke accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. He drives his beloved fire-red Saab 900 Turbo to the big city in the west, where, upon arrival, he learns to his surprise and disappointment that, for legal reasons, he is forced to let Misaki, a young chauffeur who hides her own traumatic past, drive his car.

Rehearsals progress, and eventually Yusuke and Misaki develop a routine, with the Saab increasingly becoming an unexpected confessional for both driver and passenger. Less pleasant for Yusuke, however, is the decision to cast Koji, a handsome young television actor with an unwanted connection to his late wife, in the lead role.

As the premiere approaches, tensions between the cast and crew grow, and Yusuke’s increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to face uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife.

I’m glad I’ve now seen Drive My Car for the second time, because with each new encounter I have different expectations of the characters, whose thoughts and actions seem to reflect my understanding of human interaction.

The character of Misaki, for example, now vaguely reminds me of someone I met recently. Her sober, disarming, and astute manner invites me to want to learn more about her. What does she think? Why does she think that way? And who—or what—made her who she is today?

The flowing conversations in Drive My Car are like intimate dances whose intention is to build bridges to the other person—brick by brick, meter by meter. With each new day that dawns in Hiroshima, there is a chance that two people will open up a little more to each other, only to be rewarded with new insights, no matter how painful they may be. And these insights apply not only to the other person, but often to myself as well.

Only those who have not even attempted to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething with tension: Yusuke, who cannot forgive himself for his wife’s death and searches for answers that may not even exist; Misaki, whose observations only become words of trust when she assesses the chances of further hurt as low; and Koji, whose search for meaning can only save others, but not himself.

Eiko Ishibashi’s selectively used music dispels the absolute silence at just the right moments, which is otherwise interrupted only by glances, touches, and conversations. Extensive tracking shots across the autumnal Japanese backdrop make the characters appear as if in a diorama, their desires, hopes, and dreams seeming small and lonely.

A meta-level runs through the entire film: the story of Uncle Vanya, who is confronted with his life and his missteps in Anton Chekhov’s world-famous play. The character of Vanya represents someone who has spent his life working toward something that never came to fruition. It is a reflection on time and emotions wasted—a theme that both Yusuke and Misaki grapple with throughout the film, as both deeply regret their past relationships.

Drive My Car is mature in the truest sense of the word. Its characters have shed all childishness, all banality—indeed, all traces of joie de vivre—and try, with their last ounce of strength, to maneuver safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit in the end that they cannot drive away from the past, not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.

Songs of Rebellion and Loneliness:

I recently watched the documentary Our Lies and Truths about the rise and downfall of the Japanese girl group Keyakizaka46. After all, in recent years Techi and her comrades have been the idols I listened to most.

Songs like Silent Majority, Ambivalent, and especially 黒い羊 still play on endless loop for me today, and the accompanying music videos are performative masterworks.

Yasushi Akimoto, who has been responsible for acts such as AKB48, Onyanko Club, and Iz*One and also created Keyakizaka46, is not for nothing Japan’s most gifted and at the same time most hated producer. Some people say Yasushi Akimoto destroyed the Japanese music industry, and I agree, noted Agency for Cultural Affairs Commissioner Shunichi Tokura in cutting words.

The most striking thing about Keyakizaka46, first sister group to Nogizaka46, once slated to debut as Toriizaka46, and already missing two members before its first show, is neither the music nor the choreography, and certainly not the powerful man behind them.

It is the force with which their center, Yurina Hirate, seized the group’s inner climate and public face in no time, then year by year slipped toward madness, until, after much back-and-forth, she finally announced her departure in 2020.

Soon after, the band renamed itself Sakurazaka46, unable to cope with the hole left by Yurina Techi Hirate, who had joined at fourteen. The 2020 label-made film Lies and Truths depicts sustained decay—depression, burnout, and total overextension from Techi, and a strange mix of envy, fury, and admiration among her colleagues.

Techi was a prodigy, and no one could handle it—least of all herself. In interviews, former members recall Yurina Hirate’s impact and search for when everything went wrong.

No one knows what turned her, hailed as a reborn Momoe Yamaguchi and, at fifteen, among the year’s most attractive idols, from a cheerful girl into someone alone and apathetic in dark corners. Only she does, and she won’t say. Maybe someday, she hinted in a 2020 radio interview.

Even in the film she appears in fragments: She dances, sometimes falls, draws gazes, then implodes, sobbing I can’t! before backstage staff force on a new costume.

Keyakizaka46 sang of youth, rebellion, and being different—messages that pierced schoolgirls and traumatized outsiders. What remains is brief brilliance, lingering remnants, and a restless soul seeking happiness elsewhere.

When the Voice of an Entire Generation Fell Silent:

Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and by shouting through open windows—what actually happened to . The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days straight at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.

The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why no longer exists is: No idea. And that wouldn’t even be a lie. Because I really don’t know. Maybe it just happened that way at some point. Maybe there was no longer any place for it in today’s media world. Maybe things just have to end at some point before they are kept alive artificially (even longer) for reasons that are incomprehensible.

saw the light of day in 2007 as the successor to my private blog, Tokyopunk, just as I was on my way to Berlin to begin my training as a designer in the field of conception and visualization at a digital new media agency. Everything was new, everything was exciting, everything in my life suddenly revolved around the German capital and the colorful people who bustled around in it.

I filled my new project with personal stories, finds from the internet, and the occasional fresh music video, and found passionate writers such as Hannah, Caro, Ines, Misha, Wenke, Sara, Meltem, Jana, Daniela, and Leni to take the site to the next level. transformed from a small blog into one of the nation’s most widely read online magazines.

In the early years of the new decade, was the digital go-to for young rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists—and those who wanted to be just that, or at least know what these chaotic guys were up to and spouting nonsense about.

We were invited by brands such as Mercedes, Microsoft, and Deutsche Telekom to events throughout Germany and around the world: New York, Toronto, London. Rome, Shenzhen, Los Angeles. Lisbon, Monaco, Las Vegas. To get drunk there with Kendrick Lamar, Tokio Hotel, and Frank Ocean. And all because we wrote strange things on the internet, constantly used swear words, and there were people who wanted to read exactly that.

And every now and then there were bare breasts to be seen. Or girls throwing up. Or swastikas made of cocaine. The more provocative, the better. The press loved and hated us at the same time—much like our readers.

Unfortunately, the problem was that I continuously maneuvered into a spiral of what the fucks from which I soon couldn’t get the site out. At first, everything was funny, ironic, and over the top, but at some point a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be even more outrageous than everyone else to keep readers interested; on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer exposed genitals on the homepage.

On top of that, the Wild West days of the internet were over by the mid-2010s. Any visual content that wasn’t contractually approved by the copyright holder, rights manager, and preferably three to twelve additional lawyers couldn’t be published. The site lost its visual punch because everything consisted of official press photos, the texts became increasingly absurd and unrealistic, and transformed from a radiant rock star into a washed-up madman who drunkenly assured strangers on the street that he was still cool—really now, you, burp, stupid cunts!

With the departure of important authors, the diversity of voices that had long ensured balance in the site’s content also disappeared. Before the decline, every photo series about fucking teenagers was accompanied by an intimate text about heartbreak, every LSD-soaked music video by an amusing travelogue, every bizarre triviality by a story about the small and big experiences of those who had chosen as the medium to realize themselves digitally. After all, they could have published their texts in Vice, Huck, or the local newspaper.

But at some point, there were only empty shock articles left—attracting attention at any cost, when no one had been interested for a long time. I tried to save . Really. God is not my witness, but my friend Hannah is—without whom I might have drowned in my own madness long ago. The poor thing had to listen to the drama every day, for years on end. You have to be able to make something out of this! That can’t be all there is! Maybe try again in another language?

I was caught in an endless cycle of brooding, doubting, and trying things out. If I were even a fraction as cool as I always pretended to be in my countless articles, I would have poured gasoline on years ago, lit it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion while I walked toward the camera with a crazy smile on my face. But I’m not cool. And I can’t just let go that easily.

After all, visitor numbers were still quite good, the content we had built up over the years was being clicked on diligently, and any SEO expert would have been happy with such metrics. But in the end, I spent far too much time trying to save —time that I should have invested in more important things. Finding a real job, for example. Having children, planting trees, building houses, whatever.

Only to admit to myself at some point that wasn’t going to work out. Not because the website itself wasn’t working anymore, but because I had outgrown the whole thing and it was finally time to say goodbye. had been fun at one point, but now it wasn’t anymore. And no number of clicks in the world could change that feeling.

So one fine morning, I sat down in front of my laptop with a hot coffee, made a backup of the site, and then deleted it from the server. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I was simply done with the whole thing. was dead. And I didn’t care. I finished my coffee, got up, and went for a walk.

Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and shouting through open windows—what actually happened to . The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.

The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why no longer exists is: Because I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. And it took me a long time to admit to myself that this reason alone was enough to end it, even though logic said otherwise.

Instead, I now have my own little blog again, which I can fill with content that really interests me, and where it doesn’t matter if I’m the only one who reads it or likes it. Here, it doesn’t matter if I write about my current favorite Japanese band or publish a short story about a city at the end of the world. I can even rescue some articles from and post them here if I think they would fit in well. Why not? I can now (once again) do what I want. Hurray.

I learned a lot from and the people who had anything to do with it. But now it’s time to let the subject rest and start something new. The world out there is huge, and the possibilities for finding happiness are limitless. You just have to have the courage to let go, reach out to the unknown, and let it lead you to new adventures—before it’s too late.

The Transience of Written Words:

This website has undergone many changes over the years. From a small blog by a Bavarian media designer to a collection of stories by creative minds from all over Germany. From the Bible of Berlin nightlife to a gonzo magazine for hipsters. From a digital news site to a never-sleeping ticker of viral events. Until, at some point, I was faced with a sheer monster of false expectations and hopeless prospects.

This blog wanted to be everything, but collapsed as a result, unable to do anything right anymore. For various reasons. I had forgotten what this was really about and wanted to remain relevant at all costs in this fast-paced media world. With my eyes fixed on the future, there was only one choice: keep up. Keep up with the news. Keep up with the trends. Keep up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. I had to be even more extreme than everyone else.

At some point, I just blindly churned out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and tits in a completely irrelevant mix. The main thing was that something was happening. Whether I liked it or not didn’t matter. Stand out at any cost. Fake it till you make it. The future could only get better. But it didn’t.

I broke down in a battle I could neither win nor wanted to win. This website had filled itself to bursting with nonsense and bullshit. Of course, I didn’t want to admit it, while everyone else was already shaking their heads. It had to be wilder and wilder, bigger and bigger—stand out at any cost.

A relaunch every year. Every year the same promise, packed into a pseudo-epic article, that now everything would be like it used to be. That I understood what readers really wanted. That this blog finally wanted to be good again.

But I broke that promise again and again. Because the world around me was getting louder and brighter and flashier, and I couldn’t stop the carousel I was on until my bad metaphors blew up in my face and this website literally broke under the weight of verbal and illustrated shit.

In the end, I just wanted it to be over. I was about to delete the site, the archives, all the files. This blog had failed. I wanted world domination. But what I got was a glimpse into the absolute emptiness of a possibly bright future that I had ruined for myself. None of the fun, the expectations, the hope remained.

On a final night drenched in wine, I rummaged through the old texts—the ones that were published on this website when blogs were just becoming popular. When life was still a game. When the world still seemed to be in order. They had long since been lost in digital nirvana and crushed under a cement block of meaninglessness. I read them. And they were good.

These ten-year-old texts about love, about dreams, about the expectations of an entire generation—they were good. Just good. These texts were better than most of what had been published on this website in recent years. All the fast-paced dramas and rumors and deeds of some walking, breathing attention deficit disorder. All the digital constructs of a money-hungry industry whose little cogs had long since been ravaged by burnout and depression. All the never-ending news of a world that seemed to spin a little faster with each passing day.

They were obsolete the moment they were written. Wasted words without meaning. Without resonance. Without weight. I realized that there was only one way to save this blog. And that was to do the exact opposite of what I had considered my task in recent years. To get off this metaphorically still incredibly stupid carousel—which today seems to almost take off due to its speed—to look at it from a safe distance and to go my own way, with my own definition of time.

What does that mean now? I want the texts that appear on this website to be relevant not only in the next ten minutes, but also in the next ten years. Someone in the distant future, when hoverboards can really hover and we fly to Space Spring Break on Mars for the weekend, should read them and think: That speaks to my soul. That inspires me to try something new. I should show this to the people I like and love.

You shouldn’t be able to tell how old the content is. Because it’s completely irrelevant. Of course, no sentence is written for eternity. Texts written from the heart are always a snapshot of a moment in time—a portrait of the era in which they were written. But We’re Too Young for True Love has a different half-life than Miley Cyrus Pissed on the Floor Again. Although the latter does have its appeal, in a way. For some people, at least.

What does that mean for this blog? I want it to become a colorful grab bag full of surprises again, with something wonderful for everyone. Whether you want to read a fascinating review of an apocalyptic film or the emotional thoughts of me traveling through Japan. Whether it’s about the enamored introduction of a new band or the painful experiences of growing up. Whether you just want to look at a few digital treasures or witness an epic story in the depths of Berlin.

It’s important to me that the articles that appear on this website from now on are so great, so beautiful, so worth reading that they will still be relevant in one, two, five—maybe even ten—years, without losing the rough edges that move me when I write.

Cowboy Bebop will still be a cult classic in a decade. Haruki Murakami’s books will still be important in a decade. Texts about heartbreak will still inspire people, a decade from now, to take control of their lives again—or at least to wallow in self-pity a little more beautifully.

To make a fresh start, I have completely archived this blog, wiped the server, and started again from scratch with a just do it mentality. Little by little, I will now select old articles, revise them, correct them, improve them, and polish them up so that I can publish them again. But of course, I will also regularly add new content and mix it in so that there is always something exciting to discover.

With each new day, my digital diary will grow a little more—slowly, steadily, and with joy. For this purpose, I’ve created a design that is as minimalistic, spartan, and brutal as possible, because nothing should distract from the content.

The irony of this text lies in two points, of course. Firstly, it is basically just another one of those repetitive pseudo-epic texts that praise the resurrection of this website and swear solemnly that everything will now be as it used to be. After all, that has always worked very well so far. And secondly, it denounces the transience of words and is itself one of those texts that, for reasons of content, will lose its relevance in no time at all.

I simply want my blog to become a peaceful garden in the middle of an unmanageable digital jungle full of nonsense—where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profoundly formulated transience of being or just a few short notes from my chaotic mind.

Everyone is welcome here, free to look around and take away the thoughts and opinions they consider important and right. Or not. I would be delighted to continue accompanying, entertaining, and inspiring you, my readers, on your turbulent journey through life. In my own way.

D Is for Dragon:

It is well known that when you’re drunk, you do the stupidest things. Sending your ex a WhatsApp message with a shirtless selfie attached, for example. Convincing yourself that one more vodka Red Bull will go down just fine and that an hour later you definitely won’t be vomiting into your own pillow at home. Or getting into a fight with a bouncer. All three very stupid things. But you do what you have to do.

Kobayashi also enjoys getting drunk. The Japanese programmer is alone. And she has time. Enough time to head into the city with a bottle of sake and then back out again. That she doesn’t stay sober for long goes without saying. And because Kobayashi is in such a good mood, she drives into the forest. As one does. As a drunk programmer.

Among all the dark trees and the nighttime grass, she encounters a dragon. Tohru. As one does. As a drunk programmer. And she invites her to come live with her. As one does. As a drunk programmer. That’s how the story of Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid begins—and it doesn’t get any less absurd from there.

Anyone looking for normality in this anime series will be quickly disappointed, again and again. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a cliché bomb like no other. But it’s fun. Unlike other cliché-filled anime. Here, madness is still written with a capital M. When Tohru enters Kobayashi’s small apartment, she transforms into a pretty maid—and stays that way.

There’s not much to say about the remaining characters. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid knows it’s an anime. And because it knows it’s an anime, all its characters are pure anime archetypes. We have the cute loli. The unhinged otaku. The busty sex bomb. The shy student. The gluttonous office worker. The perpetually annoyed grouch. And my personal favorite: the kindergarten friend who’s in love with the cute loli—initially a bit of a brat, but soon bursting with joy at the slightest touch from her beloved.

So in Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, we follow the daily life of Kobayashi and her housekeeper from another world. We go shopping with them. We visit a bathhouse. We attend a comic convention. Of course, together with all sorts of other colorful characters who gradually appear out of nowhere and create even more chaos.

The series Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is, above all, one thing: fun, fun, fun. From the first to the last second, one anime bomb explodes after another. Sometimes small, sometimes big. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. Sometimes intimate, sometimes hilarious. But always with a great deal of love for the characters and the audience.

As a first anime experience, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid. Films by Studio Ghibli are more suitable for that. Or Your Name. Or perhaps Cowboy Bebop. But if you’ve watched enough anime to playfully engage with its stereotypes, then Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a guaranteed firework display of good vibes.

Fantasy for Pedophiles:

Have you ever sat in front of the TV or your laptop and wondered what the dumbest thing to watch might be, after binging every single episode of The Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, and How I Met Your Mother? The answer is: In Another World with My Smartphone. That’s the dumbest thing. Not the dumbest anime—no—but simply the dumbest thing that has ever been created and then broadcast anywhere, at any time, in any way. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.

What’s it about? The fifteen-year-old Touya Mochizuki is accidentally killed by God with a lightning bolt. As an apology, God lets him live again—but since he can’t send him back to his old world, he reincarnates him in a fantasy world instead, granting him one free wish.

Touya uses that wish to take his smartphone with him into the new world, which God kindly upgrades as well. He can’t contact his old world with it, but the phone can easily be recharged with magic and otherwise works just like it did before. He can read news websites from his world and even use Google Maps for his new fantasy world.

Since God happens to be having a pretty good day, he also boosts Touya’s physical, magical, and cognitive abilities on top of that—basically as compensation for accidentally murdering him. Touya makes full use of his second chance at life and befriends lots of different people, mainly women and high-ranking figures in the new world. He begins traveling from country to country, resolving political disputes, completing small quests, and casually enjoying himself with his newly found allies.

What at first sounds like a nice little anime adventure you could watch in between other things soon turns out, after the opening episodes, to be a pointless parade of boobs. After Touya meets about ten different run-of-the-mill girls in the first few episodes—ranging from toddlers to sex bombs to a 600-year-old vampire queen in a teenage body—the story quickly devolves into nothing but the question of which of the under-served minors Touya will eventually marry.

In Another World with My Smartphone feels like it was written by a pubescent twelve-year-old who has absolutely no idea how social interactions are supposed to work in order to make even the slightest bit of sense.

For example, one episode revolves solely around the extremely important question of which of the ten walking fantasy pin-ups for perverts gets to show Touya her more-or-less existent underwear first. Every now and then a few ninjas, monsters, or dragons show up, but they’re dealt with within five minutes so the show can quickly return to what it considers the important stuff.

I watched In Another World with My Smartphone all the way to the end. Not because I hoped the series might somehow turn things around and tell an adventurous story in what initially looks like a cliché fantasy world—no. After the first three episodes it was already clear to me that this was all garbage.

And In Another World with My Smartphone isn’t stupid in a funny way or dumb in an entertaining way. No—it’s simply awful. Plain and simple. Honestly, I was just too lazy to turn it off and find something else to play in the background while I jotted down stock market prices or something.

Everyone responsible for In Another World with My Smartphone, or involved in its creation, should be sued into the ground. You know me: I like breasts. Small ones, big ones, young ones, old ones, light ones, dark ones. And I don’t care if feminism gets trampled underfoot, as long as it makes sense within the world being presented to me.

That’s the great thing about movies and TV shows: they can show whatever they want. They don’t have to be role models. They can go over the top. Just because some poor idiot gets shot every week in CSI: Miami doesn’t automatically mean every viewer thinks murder is a good thing.

But In Another World with My Smartphone simply makes no sense—for anyone. Neither for the audience nor for the characters. And just when you’ve finally settled a bit into the characters and the world and think, Well, it’s not that bad, the creators throw a few more half-naked lunatics into the animated harem for idiots.

What haven’t we had yet? Robots with boobs? Here you go! A scientist in stockings? Here you go! A twelve-year-old with a marriage fetish? Here you go! Now everyone fight over Touya—the uptight loser in the white pimp coat whose only defining trait is a magical phone. Even the most pedophilic Harald would probably feel like he’s being thoroughly messed with while watching In Another World with My Smartphone.

If you’re thinking about giving In Another World with My Smartphone a try just to form your own opinion, then I can only say: No. I forbid it. Every raccoon run over multiple times on the Route 66 can give you a better story than whatever was cobbled together here into an anime while the creators sat at their drawing boards with their pants open and eventually threw any semblance of plot overboard so that irrelevant fantasy girls could outdo each other minute by minute in their desperate horniness. In Another World with My Smartphone is the dumbest thing. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.

Of Beasts and Breasts:

Let’s get this out of the way right away: Monster Girls is not exactly the deepest, smartest, or even remotely the most beautiful anime under the sun. Quite the opposite. The utterly idiotic story fits on a cum-stained biscuit, the dialogue mostly consists of swearing, screaming, and moaning, and the illustrations look like they came straight out of one of those seventh-rate hentai dating simulations made by some Russian backwoods developers that you regularly get thrown at you on Steam in ten-packs for about two bucks.

So what’s it about? For years the Japanese government had kept a secret: mythical creatures such as centaurs, mermaids, harpies, and lamias are real. Three years before the events of Monster Girls begin, the government revealed the existence of these beings and introduced a kind of cultural exchange program.

Since then, these creatures have become part of human society and live with ordinary families like exchange students or au-pair participants, though with different duties and restrictions. For example, humans are not allowed to mate with the strange beings. For whatever reason.

Enter Kimihito Kurusu, a typical run-of-the-mill Japanese fuckboy. When Kuroko Smith, a coordinator for the Japanese cultural exchange program and a female copy of a certain agent from the film Matrix, accidentally delivers the very frightened and embarrassed lamia Mia to his door, he doesn’t have the nerve to send her away and lets her move in. Naturally.

As the story progresses, Kimihito meets other female monsters, each belonging to a different species, and gives them shelter as well. Some arrive more or less by chance, others are forced on him by Kuroko or push themselves into his life, and it doesn’t take long before he finds himself in a chaotic situation in which he tries to live in harmony with his new housemates while dealing with their constant wishes, fears, and the drama that results from helping them adjust to life in the human world.

However, the situation takes a new turn after Kimihito is more or less charmingly informed that, due to an expected change in the law concerning relationships between species, he is expected—essentially as a test subject—to marry one of the girls, which greatly intensifies the competition for his attention.

Over time, episode by episode, other liminal beings also become attracted to him and start trying to win him over, much to Kimihito’s embarrassment and to the utter annoyance of his already outrageously horny housemates.

Monster Girls is one of those typical harem anime that has been told a thousand times before, in which a nose-bleeding protagonist is pursued by around ten extremely horny female characters. The only difference is that this time they happen to be monsters with more or less large breasts who absolutely want to be mounted right here and now.

We have Mia, the snake with the big breasts; Papi, the harpy with the small breasts; Zentrea, the centaur with the gigantic breasts; Sue, the slime creature with flexible breasts; Melu, the mermaid with big breasts; Rachnera, the spider with enormous breasts; Lala, the dullahan with big breasts; Zombina, the zombie with thick breasts; Tionisha, the ogre with huge breasts; Manako, the cyclops with small breasts; Doppel, the shapeshifter with average-sized breasts; Polt, the kobold with big breasts; Ki, the dryad with massive breasts; Lilith, the devil with small breasts; Cattle, the minotaur with enormous breasts; Luz, the fox with small breasts; Merino, the sheep with big breasts; and of course agent Kuroko, who is likewise blessed with a generous chest. By whoever.

In Monster Girls, the viewer is constantly bombarded from all sides by exposed secondary sexual characteristics—usually straight into Kimihito’s face, which causes him to cry, complain, or bleed. Often all three at once. The series doesn’t offer much more narrative depth than that. But that’s fine. Monster Girls doesn’t convince through an emotional story, clever twists, or even its drawing style.

Just watch the first five minutes of Monster Girls and you’ll know exactly what to expect from the following episodes. The series really only aims to do one thing: be fun. Anyone who has ever wanted to see an angry horse with big, wet boobs take down a motorcycle pickpocket will be in exactly the right place with Monster Girls. It doesn’t get any smarter than that—but not much dumber either. And in today’s otherwise unpredictable world, that’s worth something too.

For some, Monster Girls is a contemporary critique of the ongoing racism and sexism in 21st-century Japanese society. For others, it’s a colorful masturbation aid for perverts who have always wondered what sex with a moist, big-breasted snake might feel like.

Or, as the famous German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel supposedly always used to say: Why not both?

Fuck the Teacher:

As Rui lies sweaty on her stomach in bed in front of Natsuo, her bottom clad in skimpy underwear thrust toward him, his heart begins to beat faster with every passing second. Rui coughs. The cold seems to be bothering her. The only thing that will help now is the freshly unwrapped suppository that Natsuo is holding in his hand.

He gently pulls down his little stepsister’s damp panties. Natsuo’s youthful modesty prevents him from looking directly at Rui’s most intimate parts, so he carefully feels his way between her legs with the white suppository. The girl whimpers.

The first opening Natsuo reaches with his fingertips doesn’t seem to be the right one. Higher… Rui gasps quietly, her face pressed into a pillow as her older stepbrother tries to gently push the suppository into her moist entrance.

I’m sorry… is all Natsuo can say before feeling his way a few inches higher and then lovingly pushing the medicine into her tight, conception-longing exit. Only Rui’s gurgling moans break the silence in her dimly lit bedroom. Soon she will feel better again.

Welcome to the scandalous world of Domestic Girlfriend, the anime for people who somehow find incest and sexual intercourse with wards quite acceptable, but would rather not promote blood libel and horny teachers. Here, there is kissing, fondling, and fooling around until the break bell rings, but somehow everything is quite nice, cute, and funny. At least until the first feelings develop.

Natsuo Fuji has a crush on one of his teachers, Hina Tachibana, but since he knows he has no chance of ever getting into a relationship with her, he lets his friends talk him into going to a party where he meets the quiet Rui.

One thing leads to another and then, well, neither of them is a virgin anymore. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what they expected, but that’s okay. They’re just ships passing in the night and will never have to see each other again, right?

But when Natsuo’s father announces that he is getting remarried, Natsuo learns that he will also have two new stepsisters. Now there’s a problem, because, what a coincidence, one of them is his teacher Hina and the other is Rui. Yes, the family dinners at Natsuo’s house are about to become more or less really awkward in Domestic Girlfriend.

What sounds like a nice love story with a little physical contact quickly develops into a drama harem with hentai elements. Rarely have I wished so much for a protagonist to fail in all his endeavors and for karma to really kick him in his constantly swollen soft parts as I do for Natsuo in Domestic Girlfriend.

Natsuo cheats, lies, and fibs his way through every interpersonal relationship, hurting everyone who crosses his path within a ten-kilometer radius. Of course, Natsuo is unaware of any guilt. He’s just looking for true love. And if people who develop feelings for him get hurt in the process, that’s not his problem. After all, it’s their own fault for falling for his innocent ways.

But instead of punishing him for breaking his little stepsister’s heart and hymen, massaging his suicidal classmate’s breasts, and then fucking his teacher, he ends up winning an award for best young writer, because after all, it’s his big dream to become an author. And Rui, whom he has been messing with from the very beginning, spreads her legs for him again to celebrate the occasion.

If the credits hadn’t come before, Natsuo would probably have won the lottery too. Because Domestic Girlfriend teaches us that karma can’t hurt you if you simply praise improvement after every misstep and smile away all signs of remorse in a sympathetic manner. After all, Natsuo is the main character in his own life story and, hehe, hoho, if you have tits and, for whatever reason, ended up near him, then you’re just out of luck.

Instead of having to listen to Natsuo’s annoying whining all the time, I would have preferred to learn more about his boss Masaki, the gay and adorable flamboyant restaurant owner with a yakuza past. But there probably wouldn’t have been much room for underage breasts in his colorful annals.

The best thing for Domestic Girlfriend would have been if Natsuo, after his well-deserved fall down the stairs caused by his literature club friend Miu, simply hadn’t woken up. Because then we would have been spared the schmaltzy and completely far-fetched rest of the so-called story, and Rui would have found her well-deserved happiness. With me, for example. Right, I’m going to stick a suppository up my rear end now—Domestic Girlfriend has made me sick.

In Love With a Goddess:

Back in the day, as everyone knows, everything was better. The music. The weather. The food. The love. And of course television, too. These days it’s nothing but crap. But were anime better back then as well? You might think so. Sailor Moon. Cowboy Bebop. Neon Genesis Evangelion. All classics from that era that still convince today through their likable characters, their great stories, or simply their sheer epic scale.

Oh! My Goddess is without a doubt a classic. The anime released in 2005, based on a manga, is still celebrated decades later as one of the most popular animated series from the Land of the Rising Sun. Likable characters? Definitely! A great story? Uh, well… if you want to call it that. Sheer epicness? Eh.

So what’s it about? Keiichi Morisato is a second-year college student who accidentally calls the Technical Goddess Hotline. The goddess Belldandy appears and informs him that her agency has received a system request from him and that she is supposed to grant him a single wish. Believing someone is playing a prank on him, he wishes that she would stay with him forever. And his wish is granted.

Since he cannot live with Belldandy in his all-male dormitory, they are forced to look for alternative accommodation and eventually find shelter in an old Buddhist temple.

They are allowed to stay there indefinitely because the monk who lives there has gone on a pilgrimage to India after being impressed by Belldandy’s innate kindness. Keiichi’s life with Belldandy becomes even more hectic when her older sister Urd and her younger sister Skuld also move in. A series of adventures follows as his relationship with Belldandy develops.

There’s a reason anime series today are no longer made the way they were back then. And that reason is: lack of ideas. Keiichi is the typical shy, run-of-the-mill Japanese loser who gets nosebleeds just from seeing two cloud formations shaped like breasts. Belldandy is perfect. Period. And all the other characters are… there.

In Oh! My Goddess, 26 episodes attempt to connect the creative beginning with the emotional ending. What happens in between is completely irrelevant. While the creators initially tried to portray the unusual situation Keiichi finds himself in after his wish—sometimes humorously, sometimes sadly—the stories become increasingly absurd over time. And not in a good way.

By the midpoint of the series at the latest, it’s basically just random goddesses and demonesses insulting each other. Then suddenly they’re racing cars, unleashing robots on one another, and eventually something explodes while a pseudo-homosexual motorcycle club cheers. The end. Next episode. The same thing again. And if they only had about three yen of budget left for an episode, then it takes place entirely inside a house. Occasionally you see the garden. Wow.

Some episodes aren’t worth the celluloid they were recorded on. The intro plays, then shortly afterward the credits roll, and you’re left wondering: what actually happened there? Did anything happen at all? The little goddess and her older sister had an argument and Keiichi fell down. That’s it. The theme song was the best part of the episode.

Oh! My Goddess is the perfect background-watch adventure. It has the charm of an Kids’ WB anime series, the kind where you just drift from episode to episode and it didn’t matter if you missed one because you actually got up and went to play soccer with your friends.

Basically, you can watch the first five and the last five episodes of Oh! My Goddess and you won’t have missed anything. And if you find yourself wondering what relevance some previously unseen character has? The answer is always: none. They just suddenly appeared. And cause trouble. That’s all.

Oh! My Goddess would have been a better series if it had simply focused on the relationship between Keiichi and Belldandy. And whoever suggested that it would be funny if Belldandy’s entire family gradually showed up should have been fired on the spot before they even finished the sentence. Back then everything was better. Except Oh! My Goddess.

Maybe Not Today, but a Huge Sun May Rise Tomorrow:

Tatsuya Egawa’s Golden Boy was the first anime that made me realize that Japanese cartoons weren’t just for little boys and girls but could also go in a more adult direction. This was despite the fact that the series aired on MTV in a heavily edited version—if you still remember MTV.

What’s Golden Boy about? Kintaro Oe was top of his class at Tokyo University’s Faculty of Law, one of the most prestigious in the whole world. Having mastered the entire curriculum without any problems, he disappears shortly before graduating. Now, he rides his bicycle through Japan searching for the most important things in life: the lessons you can’t learn in a classroom. That’s one way to put it.

In essence, each story revolves around Kintaro encountering a more or less big city somewhere along the road where he spots an attractive girl and immediately decides to pursue her. Literally and figuratively, as while the girl has no interest in him, he does everything possible to impress her. And when I say everything, I mean absolutely everything.

Kintaro tutors a wealthy daughter in math, cooks ramen at some restaurant and even cleans dirty toilets at a software company—all just to disappear again before actually getting what he wants. Golden Boy may only have six episodes in total, all fairly similar, but this anime still holds a very special place in my heart even today.

Tatsuya Egawa introduced me to the concept of adult themes in anime and inspired an entire generation of horny teenagers to give it a chance as an adult medium. If you’ve only ever associated anime with Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Spirited Away, Golden Boy will open both your eyes and the door to a sticky world that long-lost souls call hentai. It will even take your mental virginity.

Before you know it, you will find yourself standing in a forest of pulsating tentacle penises, with one hand down your pants, watching Japanese schoolgirls being fucked across some parallel dimension until they ultimately explode. But that, my dear and innocent children, is a story for another time…

The Queen of J-Pop:

What Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or Mariah Carey might be in Western realms, that is what women named Hikaru Utada, Namie Amuro, and Seiko Matsuda are in Japan. Grand shows, powerful voices, and an abundance of feminine energy—this is how the Far Eastern audience knows and loves its female superstars. They dazzle with charisma, glamour, and emotional performances that blend strength with elegance.

These artists are more than singers, they are icons who have shaped the image of Japanese pop culture for decades, inspiring countless fans across generations. Their concerts fill arenas, their songs dominate the charts, and their influence stretches far beyond Japan’s borders, defining what it means to be a pop legend in Asia’s ever-evolving music scene.

Whoever ventures into this alternative glittering world will not escape it easily. Suddenly they find themselves clicking through one fascinating J-Pop playlist after another, trying to sing along with Arashi, Morning Musume, and Akina Nakamori using fragments of learned words like 世界, こころ, and 愛してる.

Yet no one reaches the heights of one particular artist—the uncrowned, immortal, and one true queen of Japanese pop music: Ayumi Hamasaki. With more than twenty studio albums and numerous best-of compilations, Ayumi Hamasaki stands among the greatest stars the Land of the Rising Sun has ever produced. After a brief detour into hip-hop, her name alone now evokes admiration and nostalgia, symbolizing an entire era of musical brilliance and emotional expression.

Albums such as A Song for ×, LOVEppears, and Duty have sold millions of copies and, thanks to file sharing and passionate CD importers, have found many fans abroad. International audiences discovered her partly through the popularity of Japanese animated series like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Ranma ½, which brought attention to Asian singers and pop culture.

Born in Fukuoka, Ayumi Hamasaki sang and wrote her way into the radios and hearts of listeners with self-written and often self-composed songs like Voyage, Boys & Girls, and Dearest. She is the Queen of J-Pop. Her songs will outlast time itself, and her passion for music has inspired a new generation of Japanese artists such as Aimyon, Yoasobi, and Kenshi Yonezu.

A Balm for Depression:

Sure, sex is pretty great. But have you ever watched all the episodes of K-On! in one sitting, only to feel such a massive void in your heart afterward that you immediately started all over again just to even begin to fill it? Exactly. K-On! is pure joie de vivre, a love letter to cheerfulness, to carefree days, to the plans and hopes we all once had at some point.

When the daydreamer Yui starts high school, she firmly resolves to finally get off her lazy butt and join a school club so she won’t end up being a loser. The only question is: which one? Luckily, the newly formed school band is desperately looking for a guitarist.

This could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship and an amazing musical career for Yui. Unfortunately, she hasn’t the faintest clue how to play the guitar and has zero stage experience. On top of that, she’s easily distracted, and whenever she learns something new, she forgets something else. This is going to be a tough challenge for the other band members…

K-On! isn’t about an epic legend, grand heroic deeds, or saving the world. K-On! is about Yui—so warm-hearted, lazy, gluttonous, clumsy, naive, and adorable that it’s an absolute joy to watch her little everyday school adventures.

And it’s about her four best friends—Mio, Ritsu, Mugi, and Azusa (whom Yui affectionately calls Azumiau)—their shared, unstoppable ambition to become the best rock band in the world with After School Tea Time, and the sweet Papua softshell turtle Ton-chan, who diligently swims back and forth in the background. And about Yui’s little sister Ui, without whom nothing would probably function at all, and whose self-sacrificing devotion will undoubtedly one day become a case for the nearest psychiatrist.

If you ever feel lonely, depressed, and abandoned by the entire world, just watch an episode of K-On! before reaching for the bottle, the pillbox, or even the rope. And then another episode. And another. Until you eventually start all over again. Again and again. Forever.

K-On! makes you realize what life is really about: overcoming fears, gathering new experiences, and perhaps even finding friends for life who will stick with you through thick and thin. And maybe you’ll even rediscover your love for breezy, lighthearted pop music—the kind you once traded in for hip hop and electronic beats.

Anyone who doesn’t feel comfortable, welcomed, and at home here from the very first minute is truly beyond help. K-On! proves that sometimes it’s the small stories that truly melt your heart.

And no matter how much your soul has already been eaten away by cynicism and the general suffering of the world, after a personally prescribed K-On! cure, you’ll automatically feel more content, happier, and more positively inclined toward the entire universe.

Because Yui’s carefree nature—quite literally—rubs off even on the most sarcastic grump. Guaranteed. K-On! is sugary sweet, melodic, and absolutely iconic. And on top of that, there’s a generous dollop of whipped cream—because life is hard enough as it is.

Songs From Another World:

When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced through the streets of my uptight hometown in my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza, criss-crossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears shouting from my speakers. No. It was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Her name was Kumi Koda. The song was Butterfly.

My girlfriend at the time, who was sitting huddled in the passenger seat, was mortified as we sped past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly blaring at full volume. The fact that she let me back in her life after that is probably one of the most mysterious wonders of the world in human history.

Of course, it makes absolutely no sense for me to listen to Japanese music. I’m not Japanese and I don’t speak Japanese. No matter how much I sometimes wish I did and no matter how many Japanese courses I’ve endured. And believe me, there have been quite a few.

My teachers are utterly desperate with me. Greetings go out to Mr. Hasegawa, Ms. Takeda, and Mr. Sugimoto. To Ms. Ikeda, Ms. Takahashi, and Ms. Watanabe. To Mr. Fujiwara, Mr. Noguchi, and Ms. Yokoyama. To Ms. Ota, Ms. Sato, and Mr. Suzuki. And to Ms. Weatherby-Harrington.

After about 20 years and countless Japanese lessons, on a good day I can count to seven, distinguish between こころ for heart and こども for children, and shout はじめまして、わたしはマセルです！ for Hello, my name is Marcel! That’s it. Really.

You’d think that after all the Japanese anime, comics, series, films, concerts, books, dramas, video games, and what feels like hundreds of thousands of songs, I’d be able to do a little more. But no. Even for my great love, Japanese pop culture, I’m still too lazy to seriously learn Japanese.

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I’ve met enough Japanese students in my life who wanted to turn their hobby into a career, and with every new word they learned, they became less and less interested in consuming anything Japanese. Perhaps because that’s when you really realize that Japan is just a normal country with problems, boredom, and a relatively average entertainment industry. Like Germany. Or America. Or Romania.

Hundreds of Japanese people wouldn’t throw themselves off strategically well-placed bridges, skyscrapers, and train stations every year if the nation in the far, far East were as great as it is portrayed in K-On!. And that’s despite the fact that the show is virtually an all-around credible documentary about the everyday school life of young adolescents in the Land of the Rising Sun.

But due to my complete mental block, I can’t even begin to comprehend any further meaning of a Japanese word. To me, everything Japanese sounds great. Everything is wonderful. Everything has something magical about it. If you get wet when Jacques from some Parisian suburb asks you for directions to the nearest public toilet in the worst French accent, then Japanese has the same effect on me. What are you saying, little Japanese girl? Your dog has warts on its balls? Kawaii!

I’m that typical, fat, run-of-the-mill nerd who’s always one step away from his first heart attack, who considers Japan to be the Mecca of evolutionary creativity and celebrates everything with even a single Japanese character on it, even though he couldn’t tell it apart from Chinese, with a completely unnatural level of obsession.

Soon I’ll be buying cuddly pillows with childlike, half-clothed waifus on them, who are of course actually thousand-year-old vampire queens. I’ll only eat rice drizzled with sake. And I’ll officially change my name to Marcel-san.

When musical gods like Hikaru Utada, Scandal, or Asian Kung-Fu Generation pound on the keys, strings, and microphones, roaring, screaming, and strumming, I don’t hear hackneyed lyrics about love, pain, and freedom. I hear the pulse of Tokyo. The vibration of Osaka. The voice of Kyoto. And sometimes even the fart of Los Angeles.

With songs like First Love, Secret Base, or Rewrite, I can piece together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal credits. Fantasize about my life on the other side of the world.

J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a child when you heard English-language songs on the radio and didn’t yet have to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby? Uh, no thanks, I’d rather not.

Of course, I could look up the translations of these songs on the internet. But that would be very stupid. Then I would know that my creative heroes, whom I’ve been listening to ever since there was a Japanese song on some Sailor Moon soundtrack CD that forever changed my taste to, let’s say, alternative, so that now I have no friends left, spout the same pop-rock-backed brain shit as Taylor Swift, The Weeknd, and Adele. Only in Japanese. And then I might as well hang myself.

Nevertheless, I would argue at this point that J-pop is the best music genre humanity has ever produced. Jazz is dead. Hip hop is murky. Even the otherwise universally celebrated K-pop is nothing more than colorful.

Japanese pop music, on the other hand, is melodic, emotional, and captivating with an incredible power that you otherwise only experience when you accidentally find yourself at an anime convention surrounded by sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old dressed as Rem from Re:Zero.

Because when you don’t have to pay attention to the lyrics, but only to the musical performance as a whole, you realize the sophistication, skill, and sonic perfection that many Japanese artists put into their completely authentic work. And I can rightly claim, notice, and evaluate this. After all, I studied music history for 63 years. At the Moon University.

Maybe J-pop just broke me. Because in their four-minute songs, they like to mix eight different music genres, three orchestras, and a singer screaming at the top of her lungs, stir it all up, and turn the epic switch up to 11. So that you might think the universe is about to explode while God dies and the Keio Girls Senior High School choir cries in the background.

J-pop is the anthem of my own little messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They’re not marketed to me through TV commercials, radio slots, and newsletters. I don’t exist for them.

I can figure out their meaning for myself. I know nothing about their scandals or problems or rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me. Because everyone else thinks the songs are crap.

Its emotional range has something for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. Whether they remind me of sad anime episodes or the stirring background music in video games or heartbreak or my first minutes at Narita Airport, when I stepped through the Welcome to Japan banner into a world full of cultural, technological, and human wonders. J-pop is always there for me and fills the void of wanderlust in my small, constantly annoyed and bored heart.

Of course, J-pop isn’t cool. Even Japanese people don’t think J-pop is cool. When I once mentioned at a picnic in Yoyogi Park that I like AKB48, I was allowed to spend the rest of my trip to Japan alone.

Apparently, a report about me was repeated every hour on state television, warning the population about me and saying that it was better to stay away from me. A gaijin who likes AKB48 and admits it publicly? If you see this walking hentai, drop everything! Including your children and pets. And run for your bare life!

Cool Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But definitely not a bunch of plastered Yukis from next door who have been thrown together into a so-called band by sleazy pimp managers and now have to jump up and down and back and forth to pop dance music until something inside them breaks.

They realize that only overweight, middle-aged office workers want to celebrate them and have sex with them at the same time. And then, after their identity crisis, often accompanied by shaving their heads and crying in front of TV cameras, they are replaced by younger models. On the other hand, this is probably the case throughout the entertainment industry. Everywhere. All over the world.

And when you watch interviews with Japanese bands and musicians, there is no pride in what they have created. No arrogance. Not even a hint of self-confidence. Rather, the exact opposite. A collective apology for being responsible for such noise, which is falsely labeled and sold as music by record companies. As if they should be ashamed of following their dreams. Instead of taking over their fathers’ cement factories, as befits true Japanese descendants. After all, they have brought shame upon Otosan. Shame!

Not even they themselves seem to like J-pop. For whatever reason. But maybe that’s just Japanese reserve and politeness, which is clichédly admired and celebrated in every travelogue, no matter how lacking in individuality. They are very shy, you see. The Japanese. All Japanese people. There are no exceptions. Every child knows that.

But maybe I’m just weird. Not in a cool way. Oh God, definitely not in a cool way. More in a Should we commit him now or wait two weeks? kind of way.

When I hear even a single beat of any Ed Sheeran memorial song on the radio, I want to turn into a mass murderer on the spot. But put me in front of a ten-hour YouTube video of The Best Anime Theme Songs from 1980 to Today at full volume and I’ll starve and die of thirst at the same time. Because I just can’t turn it off. A Cruel Angel’s Thesis is just such a banger.

I’m fully aware that with this revelation, I have forever ruined any chance of future sexual intercourse. But I just can’t pretend to like people like Katy Perry, Justin Timberlake, or Sabrina Carpenter anymore. I just can’t. Their songs. Their stories. Their thoughts. They just mean nothing to me. Pure. Utter. Nothing.

Instead, I sit here, close my eyes with pleasure, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. How they sing about せかい, ドキドキ, and はなび. And I’m happy. Even though, or maybe even because, I don’t understand a single word.

What If…?:

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my head only one almost essential question keeps circling: What if. What if. What. If. While others late at night quietly masturbate or kindly let their partner fuck them into seventh heaven and then drift off to sleep with a faint smile on their face—ready to wake up the next day fit and cheerful to continue successfully building their résumé—I spend the night beating myself up with thinking.

It is always the same question. What if. What if I had made tea instead of coffee this morning. What if I had been nicer to the woman at the station kiosk yesterday. What if I had gotten Apple Music instead of Spotify. What if I had moved to Hamburg instead of Berlin back then. What if I had confessed my love to the cute girl from the parallel class. What if I weren’t so fat. What if I hadn’t cheated on my ex-girlfriends so often. What if I weren’t so lazy. What if I weren’t such an asshole. What if I didn’t think so often about the question of what would have happened if I had done something differently.

In the silence of the dark my thoughts ride a roller coaster, taking every imaginable route I can conceive of, just to show me how much cooler, more successful, and happier I might have been if at some completely arbitrary point in my life I had simply tried a little harder. My career would be more impressive. My girlfriend would be prettier. My house would be bigger. My penis would be longer. My existence would simply be worth more overall. And maybe not quite so wasted.

Companions I haven’t seen for years—maybe even decades—suddenly take shape in my head and reenact where I might have made a devastating mistake back then. Because I didn’t say, do, or think the right thing. And now I receive the mental bill for it. Because in kindergarten I kissed stupid-as-hell Steffi instead of the likeable Anne, just because Steffi was blonde and the other one wasn’t. Because in seventh grade I gave in to peer pressure and spat on Jonas’s back. Because I turned down an interview with German television and instead got drunk on sangria in the park. Because I ignored good advice and let my inflated ego make the decisions.

Life becomes a farce when everything is indifferent to you and you still get away with it. When things somehow work out even though you’re not really making much effort. Your relationship is falling apart because you simply don’t listen? Well, whatever—there’ll be another girl. You don’t have to sleep on the street even though you handle your money as if it had Monopoly printed on it? Well, whatever—the next cash will come along. You don’t have any friends left because you just don’t reply to text messages anymore? Well, whatever—new people will come along.

But what if at some point it’s over? When no more girls, no more money, and no more people come along that you can burn up in your lifelong ego trip? When you’ve taken the wrong turn on the road of your existence one too many times and now you stand in front of the shattered remains of yourself? In a dead end? With only a single thought left that will haunt and mock you for the rest of your life: What if. What if. What if.

The terrible thing is that you don’t actually know what would have happened. Would my life really have turned out better if I had confessed my love to the cute girl from the parallel class? Would we now be living in a townhouse in some suburb with two kids and a dog, going about a completely normal everyday life? Or would we have steered our car into oncoming traffic on the highway during a massive argument?

Would my life really have turned out better if I hadn’t spat on Jonas’s back? Would we have become best friends and still meet twice a year at our regular pub to chat about the good old days? Or would my classmates have mentally destroyed me over the next four years so badly that even today the mere mention of the word “school” would make me burst into tears, gasping for air and calling for my mommy?

Would my life really have turned out better if I hadn’t fallen out with the people who counted on me, who strengthened me and simply wanted to be taken seriously and not ignored? The people who meant something to me and to whom I meant something? The ones who shaped my life? And whom I should at least have listened to instead of brushing their dreams, wishes, and objections aside like trash and going my own way regardless of the consequences?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my head only one almost essential question keeps circling: What if. What if. What. If. While others late at night quietly masturbate or kindly let their partner fuck them into seventh heaven and then drift off to sleep with a faint smile on their face—ready to wake up the next day fit and cheerful to continue successfully building their résumé—I spend the night beating myself up with thinking.

And no matter how hard I try, how much I want it, how much I beg for it, this constant rattling in my head doesn’t stop. Time rushes past me, and every decision I made—or didn’t make—pulls me further away from what I once was and wanted to be. I am losing myself. And the more I try to row back, to catch up with and preserve some part of that time, the more it feels cheated, the more it turns into fuel that has only one use: to keep my thoughts running. What if. What if. What if…

Tales From China:

That we were both born in the same year connects us, Luo Yang and me. 1984. I don’t think about politics very much, she tells me when I ask about the country she lives in. And I don’t believe it has any influence on my work or my life. I prefer to focus on the people around me, even though their lives are, of course, influenced by politics. A little.

Ai Weiwei is a pioneer and an artist I deeply respect, she replies when I ask about the Chinese rebel the world knows and admires. But we come from two different generations. His work is more rooted in society and politics, whereas I’m more concerned with the emotions of the people around me. His issues therefore don’t confront me directly.

I ask about Ren Hang, who passed away last year. He was a good friend of mine. I started photographing shortly before he did, and we met at one of my exhibitions in 2009, when he was still searching for his own style. His persistence and effort prevailed against the harsh Chinese reality and earned him the attention of the West.

Will Ren’s rather provocative and alternative art leave a mark in China and around the world, I ask Luo. It’s hard to say whether he changed China for the better, but at the very least he gave more Chinese artists and young people the courage and strength to pursue their true selves, and he brought the young generation of China closer to people in the West. Ren was a brave man.

I tell Luo that I love Mian Mian. I know her books are very well known in the West, but I don’t know her particularly well. She is one of the pioneers who writes from her own experiences and with her body. We have a few mutual friends, and I know about her early, wild life. The girls I photograph share some similarities with her. They are brave, young, lost, and beautiful.

The Chinese generation of the 1980s is caught in a gap, Luo replies when I ask about our shared birth year. We inherited the traditional cultures of our predecessors and, since the country opened up, have been living in conflict with ourselves. We want to be freer, but we are held back by our family values. I don’t know Western peers particularly well, but fundamentally we are all the same. We all share the same emotions and problems, regardless of geographic and cultural differences.

I do have one last, almost clichéd question. What would Luo like to tell Germans about China and its young, new generation? I’ve been working as a photographer for more than ten years now and have seen major changes in the generations of the ’80s and ’90s. The new generation seems more relaxed and more loyal to themselves. And because China continues to develop and change every second, there will be more and more young, interesting people. Perhaps the internet and social media have brought the world closer together. Come to China and get to know the country and its young people better!

All the Witches in the Sky:

Actually, what we all really want in life is the feeling we get when we watch the first three or four Harry Potter films back-to-back. It’s warm, adventurous, and full of friendship. And if there is such a thing as a perfect emotion, it’s exactly that mixture. Unfortunately, even the most beautiful feelings eventually fade in life. But I’ve found a way to revive them—by taking a bit of a detour.

We simply take the most beautiful, affectionate, and cozy elements from the now slightly less radiant Harry Potter epic, mix them with another world we love—say, Sailor Moon—and suddenly we have something new that’s packed with all those old, wonderful, almost legendary emotions. How does that work? Very simple: with Little Witch Academia.

If I had to explain Little Witch Academia in one sentence, I’d say: just imagine putting Usagi Tsukino into Hogwarts. That’s it. You really don’t need to know much more about this anime series, which grew out of a successful short film. Sailor Moon meets Harry Potter—as a series. That should make everything clear now, every doubt removed, every question answered.

At the center of Little Witch Academia is the 16-year-old Atsuko Akko Kagari, who is sent to a prestigious magic school called Luna Nova Magical Academy to learn everything about magic. The problem is that while all her classmates are gifted witches, Akko has no clue about any of this hocus-pocus. In fact, she can’t even ride a broom.

Together with her two new best friends, Lotte Jansson and Sucy Manbavaran, the rather arrogant Diana Cavendish, and the mysterious teacher Ursula, Akko tries to make the best of things. She soon realizes that behind the façade of Luna Nova Magical Academy there are not only countless ancient mysteries hidden away—but that she herself might be destined for something greater.

Little Witch Academia thrives on the small adventures Akko experiences around the academy and on the countless colorful characters scattered throughout its lovingly crafted world: Constanze Amalie von Braunschbank Albrechtsberger, the grim German who prefers tinkering with her robots; Jasminka Antonenko, the Russian glutton; or Amanda O’Neill, the cheeky American who loves causing trouble.

Akko herself is basically a brunette version of Usagi Tsukino. She’s cheeky, impatient, and stuffs herself with cake whenever she’s stressed. Her temperament not only constantly gets her into trouble, but also helps her turn seemingly hopeless situations around and uncover one or two small—and sometimes big—secrets that would otherwise have remained hidden.

The all-girls Luna Nova Magical Academy is essentially nothing more than a Hogwarts packed with all kinds of new legends. There are potion classes with eccentric professors, sealed corridors where death and disaster lurk, and dark schemes threatening to surface. In other words: everything a grand story needs.

The episodes are pleasantly mixed up. Sometimes it’s about Akko’s destiny-shaping past, sometimes about a magical competition gone wrong. One time it’s the search for a grumpy yeti, another time the resurrection of a crazed skeleton. Sometimes it’s a deadly moss disease, other times a debt-collecting dragon. Little Witch Academia is never boring.

And although the small adventures are the most entertaining, a big secret casts its shadow over every single episode. Little Witch Academia does a lot of things right, and we could all take a page from Akko’s boundless naivety and joy for life. Without her, half the fun would be gone. If you like Sailor Moon and Harry Potter, you’ll love Little Witch Academia.

Melodies for Rebels:

I love Japanese pop music. J-pop, those are the anthems of my small, private, messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They are not marketed to me through TV ads and radio slots and newsletters.

I don’t exist for them. I can piece together their meaning on my own. I know nothing about their scandals, their problems, or their rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me and folks who are a little bit different as well.

Its emotional range has something ready for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. And one of the modern greats of this musical wonder world doesn’t even exist anymore: BiSH.

Girl groups belong to Japan like sushi, sake, and an underwear fetish. The ensembles called idol groups, AKB48, Nogizaka46, or Passpo, show up anywhere and everywhere. On television, on the radio, on billboards, in constant rotation.

In metropolises like Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka you can hardly escape their perfect smiles. In smaller cities there are often local copies of the big role models, not quite so thoroughly styled.

The band BiSH went at it a little harder than the well-known groupings. Situated somewhere between Scandal, Stereopony, and Morning Musume, Aina The End, Cent Chihiro Chittiii, Momoko Gumi Company, Lingling, Hashiyasume Atsuko, and Ayuni D tried to bless the Far Eastern music world with an audiovisual alternative.

They were not anti, not opposed, not averse to the cliché—quite the opposite. The members of BiSH, an abbreviation for Brand-new idol SHiT, made the sweet idolhood their own, and for that very reason sometimes didn’t seem like themselves. Whether that is good or bad, their homeland decided long ago. There they are unforgettable.

Songs like PAiNT it BLACK, SMACK baby SMACK, and GiANT KiLLERS have made the girls of BiSH immortal. Their afterglow lingers: evidence that candy-coated idol shine and a rougher bite can make something that sticks, even after the band is gone for good and only its voices remain. I can still hear their songs in convenience stores, karaoke rooms, and late-night variety shows. And, of course, BiSH will live on in my private playlists—forever.

Freedom Over Convenience:

I was never cool. Not in kindergarten, not in school, not in working life. While everyone around me listened to the latest songs by American hip-hop artists, wore the trendiest Nike Air Max, and took drugs I had never even heard of, I nerded around in my little cosmos, listened to the Chrono Trigger soundtrack on my iPod that was threatening to fall apart, wore Superstars for 15 years straight, and already felt pretty badass if I took a puff from a joint once in a while.

Whenever I wanted to get my hands on music, series, or movies, I was a big fan of torrents. Every month there was an indie rock playlist via download link featuring the most bizarre alternative tracks. I subscribed to anime series via RSS, and movies usually came to me on some shared hard drive on a university server. Life was beautiful. And simple.

When Spotify started getting big, I completely ignored it. I didn’t care. Why should I pay money to rent music that doesn’t even belong to me and that I would never listen to 99 percent of in my life anyway? Spotify was a small, insignificant niche trend that people mocked in forums and that I dismissed with a simple Nope.

While I happily browsed The Pirate Bay for the newest One Piece episodes and celebrated Lykke Li, Bat for Lashes, and Santigold on illegal playlists, the technological climate was changing. More and more of my friends and acquaintances in Berlin suddenly had the dark green Spotify logo on their iPhones and laptops.

Look, I can listen to the new Kanye West album without buying it! Wooooow…, I thought. Welcome to my world from ten years ago! My ignorance turned into mockery. At the time, I had no idea that this Spotify thing would one day lead to a personal crisis in my cozy little nerd world.

While the people around me slowly but surely joined the collective streaming party, I celebrated myself with my beloved MP3 collection, listened my way through albums and singles that some PR agencies sent me for free, and even started buying tracks from artists I really liked on Bandcamp.

My crisis began the day Apple suddenly introduced Apple Music. Before that, iTunes had been a gathering place for personal favorite albums, but now even the computer manufacturer of my choice was celebrating the trend toward streaming. Suddenly streaming was no longer just some parallel world out there—it was invading my personal cosmos.

I might not have been cool, but at least I had always been ahead of the curve technologically. While you were installing Windows XP, I already had my first Mac at home. While you were still jogging with a Discman, I was copying my first 128-kbps MP3s onto my iPod. And while you were drooling in front of NBC’s afternoon programming, I was downloading the latest HBO shows. I wasn’t cool, but I was better.

But thanks to Spotify, Netflix, and Apple Music, I suddenly had the feeling that I was no longer technologically up to date. Owning media was no longer contemporary. Piracy was no longer associated with geeky teenagers but with Polish money launderers. Streaming became the norm; everything else suddenly belonged to the past.

Little by little, more and more high-school dropouts gained access to the internet and continuously demolished it in a way that, in retrospect, I see as an attack on my digital personality. People who had no idea about technology—who used their €800 phones for duckface selfies and Candy Crush—had destroyed my world.

Now technology was no longer made for people who understood it, but for those who were already mentally overwhelmed by a 12-minute YouTube video without a hard cut.

Why can’t I touch the desktop screen? Why can’t I oppose Facebook’s terms and conditions with a shared image full of spelling mistakes? Why can’t I vote for the AfD without being considered a dim-witted idiot?

People gradually moved voluntarily into closed ecosystems because the open internet overwhelmed them. Who needs websites if you have Facebook? Who needs blogs if you have YouTube? Who needs MP3s if you have Spotify? Digital freedom is simply too exhausting for most people.

At the latest when Apple began marketing the iPad as a Mac replacement, when people considered Dropbox a real backup substitute, and when Netflix series advanced into universal pop-culture goods, I realized that my technological worldview was threatening to become obsolete. Like paper. Or SMS. Or the fax machine.

So I packed all my files onto an external hard drive, reinstalled my operating system, and tried to live a mobile, torrent-free life. I signed up for Spotify, Netflix, and Dropbox. I wanted to be just like the people celebrating Silicon Valley and swallowing everything it throws out into the world without criticism. How hard can it be? I asked myself.

From now on I’ll only watch Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, and whatever sad licensing leftovers remain on German Crunchyroll. After all, VPNs are for criminals and pedophiles. From now on I’ll only listen to Ed Sheeran, Post Malone, and Joe Rogan. Other people manage it too. And from now on torrents, MP3s, and Mega downloads are taboo. Adults who operate digitally don’t need such things.

The resolution lasted one week. Spotify drove me crazy because I couldn’t find half of my favorite artists and songs disappeared from playlists I had added to my library. Just like that. Without explanation. Some albums had only three playable songs. Most of the songs suggested to me were German rap nonsense and Starbucks background elevator music. Wow.

And when I did find a few songs that I convinced myself were modern and cool, I listened to them twice and then switched back to some nerdy radio station on YouTube. So those ten euros a month were already unnecessary. Yes, I have a pretty strange taste in music—and yes, that doesn’t exactly make life easier.

Most of my time on Netflix was spent lethargically clicking through menus for half an hour because I couldn’t decide whether to watch Mean Girls for the twentieth time or maybe Men in Black. Eventually I had to tell myself that I wasn’t allowed to download Made in Abyss, even though half of Reddit was raving about it.

My new digital self was censored, localized, and useless. It wasn’t just difficult to squeeze myself into these modern cages that were supposed to make life so easy—it was practically impossible. I simply couldn’t flip that mental switch that was supposed to turn me into a new person.

It’s not really about the money. Or about having to subscribe to ten different services at ten euros a month just to simulate even a fraction of the internet’s available bandwidth of consumable content. It’s about the fact that I find it difficult to follow this path of creative restriction.

Maybe it’s easier if you’re born directly into the world of Netflix, Spotify & Co. Or if you simply have a more ordinary taste in music and films and don’t enjoy looking beyond the cultural horizon anyway. I can hardly expect Ed Sheeran fans to protest when they can’t immediately listen to the newest Suran song.

I wanted to be cool and modern and technologically at the forefront. But if being cool and modern and technologically at the forefront means turning away from the infinite expanses of the internet and only consuming the pre-selected bites served to me, then I probably belong to the past now. And I’m not proud of it. Quite the opposite.

It scares me. Because officially that means I now belong to those who can no longer adapt to the future. The ones who demonize Snapchat, hate YouTubers, and think touchscreens are stupid. The ones who want to preserve the status quo as long as possible and react to every innovation by first mocking it, then condemning it, and eventually fighting it.

Streaming would actually be a fantastic invention—if a few gatekeepers like Netflix, Spotify, and Amazon didn’t control what comes out on the other end. The more money we pour into these few corporations, the more dependent we become on them and their corporate manifestos. The internet began as a network of open ideas. We should not allow ourselves to end up in a past disguised as the future.

Soon there will probably be a rift running through society. The majority who feel comfortable in walled gardens and have no problem with pre-chewed, localized, and censored content—and the renegade groups gathering on the dark edges of the brightly lit Spotify, Netflix, and Apple Music theme parks, celebrating the last remnants of a free internet in their tattered clothes. You just have to decide which side you will belong to…

Small Talk Is Hitler:

So we’re standing at the counter in this hotel lobby, staring into space. The girl’s name is Irina and she’s plump, the guy’s name is Erik and he’s important, my name is Marcel and I want to go home. But that’s not possible. Business appointments are essential for business. So instead of telling Irina that I want to penetrate her anally in her single room at around 9 p.m. tonight and carefully stapling my bank details to Erik’s forehead so he can transfer his inherited fortune to me, we first have to perform the social dance of dances.

I hate small talk. And I hate the attentive I don’t really give a shit about your life, but yes, nice weather smile with the dull looks, all of which have been trained so as not to yawn at each other. And I hate most people anyway. So why bother? Dogs sniff each other’s behinds, humans get closer through small talk. Which is definitely less fun. Imagine how many wonderful hours we could save if we got straight to the point.

Because let’s be honest. Rudimentary conversations are a fraction of the general German chatter. Exchanging information is important. Your aunt’s cute dog is not. Yelling at someone out of deep hatred because they dropped my ice cream on the ground is important. Farmer Wants a Wife is not. When I throw myself drunk in front of a girl in the park at night to tell her how much I love her and that she has the most beautiful knees in the world, that’s important. Ninety-nine percent, no, what am I saying, 100 percent of all tweets are not.

However, I am also the master of double standards. While I would like to push my way to the top without saying much, I can’t stand people who try to do the same to me. Anyone who wants something from me had better know my favorite color, rant about Munich in the summer, and say something the moment I think it. The importance of this rule decreases in inverse proportion to the chest size of my counterpart and the number of hours on my cheap Swatch watch.

Let’s summarize. Small talk is Hitler when I have to endure it, but it’s a fucking law if anyone else even thinks about ignoring it. Immediately acting like buddies without preparing your face for a counterattack. Stand in front of me, shake my hand, and tell me who you are. And give me money. Lots of money. Then we can continue talking.

So while skinny Erik babbles on about his plans for some idiotic web project and Irina’s lips seem to melt, I try to telepathically convey to the bartender that he should bring me a sharp knife or set off the fire alarm or recite dirty jokes in opera form at the top of his lungs. None of that happens; I’m handed a glass of champagne. I nod amiably, clink glasses with the two of them, and laugh insincerely at a more than lousy pun. God, I’m fake.