The Right Kind of Murder

Suicide can be a pleasure. I’d been sitting with the idea of erasing myself for a while, but when the moment finally came it surprised even me—no drugs, no alcohol, no desperate horniness driving the decision. I just deleted TOKYOPUNK. Quietly. On a Sunday. Gone.

Some people will miss it. I’ll miss it too, the way you miss a version of yourself you had to stop being. Once it was free—I wrote whatever I wanted, however I wanted, for whatever reasons I wanted. But TOKYOPUNK grew past me, or I grew past it, and the distinction stopped mattering. At some point it became only about the design. The comments. The visitor numbers ticking upward. It turned repulsive. So it had to die.

I’m staring at my long, tan fingers jumping around on a white keyboard, trying to force scattered thoughts into sentences. Other bloggers will think I’ve lost my mind—abandoning a solid rank, guaranteed front-page search placement, all those inbound links. I genuinely don’t care. And some of you, the ones whose hearts haven’t been carved apart by feed statistics that don’t mean anything, will know exactly why I did it. It felt like release. The clouds outside look beautiful today. Dense, full of contrast.

Welcome to this journal.

I’m a serial restarter. Always have been. I get bored too fast—with games, with fucking, with writing. Is it just me? I envy people who can commit to one thing and build it slowly. But also not really. What I love are the honest ones—the bloggers who understood what any of this was actually for. They know. Don’t let the noise confuse you.

This thing stands for me: a schizophrenic creature that wants to dive as deep as possible into life while simultaneously wanting nothing to do with any of it. Stripping the gravity out of things is fun. The prudishness. The earnest performance of importance. And I was genuinely surprised by how many people noticed the murder, how many wrote about it. Thank you for that. Now you can love this place for the right reasons.