At Mister Donut, a well-dressed madwoman, skinny as a flame, chain smokes, looks like an arrow headed everywhere at once. Caves in her cheeks, cigarettes disintegrate in three puffs. Talks out loud in an angry voice. Starts at every sound. Madwoman’s cleared out the smoking section.
Our donut shop is famous for its view of Fuji. Straight on, dead center, between the apartments and the telephone poles. It’s right there, heavy over the city, but the cold crisp mornings you can see it are increasingly rare.
Grab the clear skies while you can.
Hey, madwoman, what right do you have to be crazy in a comfortable country? Misery is for the poor. What's your excuse? Quiet, woman! They'll call you ungrateful. Call you a witch. Call you a spoiled little girl.
What right do you have to complain? Quiet, woman! They’ll call you insane!
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