"Have you ever seen an idealist with grey hairs on his head? Or successful men who keep in touch with unsuccessful friends? You maybe think you did, and I could have sworn I saw it too, but as it turns out it was just a clever ad for cigarettes." Typhoon? Typhoon! Really? Are there precautions to take? Batteries to buy? Places to seek shelter?
School was canceled and I was a mass of critical concern. Natural diasters usually prompt a Hula freak out session, but strangely enough the promise of a typhoon was strangely alluring. I headed into the city center with hopes of joining my other impulsive, move to Japan on a whim, like-minded friends to watch the eye of the storm circle and swoop. We romanticized danger. Howling winds a gentle chorus. Tipped trashcans a playful waltz. Maybe we were trying to create. Make an allegory of our experiences. Maybe we needed the permission to destroy our past life in 
exchange for this new one that we tiptoe around. A storm. A natural diaster that wouldn't be a product of our own making. That's making a madness of metaphor, but it's also quite telling that the typhoon didn't materialize. That we were safe. Reeling. Waiting. Holding eachother in the hopes that we'd desperately need that tight grasph. And, it worked. Here's a home. Here's a love. Hiroshima is happiness.
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