It's raining in Tokyo. Bathing in a marble of neon lights, I hold my breath and listen. Where does this water go? Down underground, sinking into the memory of this land.

Breathe with me, deities of the sacred forest. I see you everywhere. Let me float in the darkness, flow through the water veins of the spirit.

The garden is not mine. It belongs to the flowers. It belongs to the grass. It belongs to the wind that blows through every soul.

The island's seasons are wild and gentle, challenging and nurturing, destructive and fertile. What is the secret of this contradiction? The fruit knows it all - a citrus harvested in Kochi.

Oud/Agarwood, sandalwood, oakwood. The woods of the nobles, the noble woods. Lead me through the enchanted mist. I close my eyes, then I see - the world and I are one and the same.

Jasmine, rose, osmanthus, ylang-ylang...Let me gather all the flowers from my memories and make a bouquet. You’re here together to cast a spell on the new day.

Morning light falls on moss, untouched.
Olibanum lingers white; Japanese pepper sparks thin.
Oakmoss sharpens memory——
Kyara, slow-burning gravity.

Daylight fractures on a cobbled street.
Osmanthus and mimosa sway gently above.
Fennel, a green cut through air.
Vetiver below, time rooted in shadow.

Feel the distance
Breathe the space
Air is the medium
We all speak

A decisive difference
My center of gravity
An endless curiosity
An altered trajectory

A passion, a sensation.
It's the duration
of my lifelong relation
to the world we share.