Alright. Come to my place at eight.

Alright. Come to my place at eight."

"I won't be late."

Takaba pushed the stiff door to his apartment open; the carpenters had done an awful job fitting it in, whoever they were. He hung his coat, wet and soggy from the melted snow, on the stand and slipped off his shoes and kicked them into a corner. He had about six days to get five good shots.

In Tokyo, that probably wouldn't have been a problem, but his line of work in London was entirely different. It wasn't about getting the content anymore. It was about how he captured the content, and some of that change had leaked into his personality. He headed into the bathroom to wash his face, feeling particularly gloomy despite the ring on his finger.

Maybe it was the ring that had him so pensive… He fingered the cold metal with his thumb. It had taken him by surprise. Such a concrete, tangible show of commitment.

Asami… would Asami have done that? Could that kind of man show anything more than the carnal attractions that beasts felt? He smirked at himself.

You fool, Akihito, you disillusioned fool…

Flicking on the lights, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror. The food wasn't all that bad considering what he'd heard of London food, but it wasn't what he was accustomed to by any means. Too lazy and busy to cook, he forced himself to swallow the foreign food every meal, and two years of it had taken a toll on him.

He was visibly thinner. He could tell from the way his cheeks sucked in just a bit more than it used to. His pants were looser around his waist, his belt went a couple loops smaller, and his shirts felt a tiny bit big around his torso. In physical terms, however, his hair was probably the most notable change of all. Black. The vibrant chestnut had been absorbed into a void of black. Besides, the hair dressers in London could never get the color right anyway.

But it was the internal change that shocked him the most. He still tortured himself over Asami at night and had taken to taking sleeping pills when it was especially bad; he hid the pills from Gyles. There was no tossing and turning, just a blank stare at the ceiling (which had neon stars glued to it by some kid that probably lived there before). As his mind relived his days in Tokyo, the neon green swirled above him, spiraling like a mutant Milky Way. He woke up twice, three times a night for no reason at all and cried himself back to sleep when he was alone.

He still did find himself in rather risky situations though. Gyles was vehemently against Takaba going to some of the places he did: Iraq, Sudan, Pakistan, Israel, Lebanon, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Cuba. It was compensation. He couldn't let go of the rush he had grown accustomed to in Tokyo. He spent several months in Iraq, following a group of US soldiers.

Takaba fingered the scar that ran from back of his shoulder to his collarbone, a momento from an IED that had gone off when the convoy he was in tripped a branch wire. The driver, a twenty year old from Iowa, or was that Ohio, he could never remember, died almost instantly, shrapnel imbedded into his jaw and skull, snapping the artery that led up to the brain.

Pushing the bloody memory aside, Takaba opened the cabinet and dug through the bottles of shaving cream and aftershave, the mouthwash and lotions, until he found the small yellow bottle he was looking for.

The inside contents were prescription drugs for those migraines, those awful headaches, that had started two years ago.

The headaches started out slow, at first just light throbbing at the temples, and he had coped with small doses of Aspirin. Then those lost their effectiveness and the pain grew more frequent and more intense. He upped the ante to Tylenol. Then Vanquish, a combination of Aspirin and Tylenol. Those became close to useless and redundant and he began taking Aleve, which wasn't even really for headaches to begin with, hoping to make the intense agony in his skulls ebb even just a little bit. He probably had tried and thrown out every over-the-counter drug anyone could think of

Finally, he couldn't take the pain anymore and went to a doctor, who prescribed him Frionol. It had almost no effect what so ever. And now he was finally at Amerge, which only helped relieve his momentary pain, but for Takaba, it was enough. Pragmatic solutions were sufficient.

He popped open the cap and with his other hand, let the water run into the sink. It was probably unwise to use the tap water, but he swallowed the white, beret shaped pill with it.

It left a bitter, acrid aftertaste in his mouth.

Takaba splashed his face and stared at the water spiral down, gurgling as it emptied into the pipes. Drips fell from the tip of his nose and he watched the ripples be engulfed into the tiny whirlpool. Exhaling softly, he closed the cabinet, shoving the cylindrical bottle into his jean pockets.

Takaba treaded softly into a spare room that he used as a darkroom. The smell of fixer was especially concentrated here. Gyles had reprimanded him for keeping a darkroom in his own apartment, listing off the possible bodily harm these chemicals could do him, even offering him a developing studio he could use near the gallery, but this was just the way Takaba did things.

The windows were covered with a thick, black panel and near the door was a black curtain that ran from floor to ceiling. The clear bulbs were replaced with red ones that shone sinisterly as Takaba flipped the switch on. They were ruby, demon eyes that watched him watching from the ceiling.

It was out of "fashion," he knew, to still have a makeshift darkroom in his own home. Many of his colleagues, both in Tokyo and London, switched to digital or used professional, but Takaba was stubborn about the darkroom. It made his apartment feel… real. Not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

His camera was still where he had left it, and he picked it up, along with the bag with the extra films and canisters. With another six or seven hours before heading to Gyles' place, he might as well take Gyles' advice and try his luck in urban London.

He flicked off the red light, shutting the door tight so that the smell wouldn't diffuse through the entire apartment, and picked up his coat again. He planned on trying out the more run down parts of town. Everywhere else looked like pictures from a tourist guide book, certainly not the kind of photo that Takaba was in for.

When he stepped outside, snow was still floating down gently from the cloudy sky. He couldn't help but be reminded of the sakura blooms in spring when a breeze shook them from their fragile branches. The snow covered signs and trees looked oddly like frozen versions of immature sakura trees in full bloom, and he couldn't help but wonder, did Asami ever took the time to enjoy those?

Probably not, he was usually too busy riding in his BMW with a cell phone glued to his ears.

Takaba sighed as the growing layer of snow crunched beneath his feet. It was… agonizing. Everything reminded him of something else, which led to another memory and so on until his mind strayed to Asami again. Every line and shape and plane in the complex geometry of his conscience spiraled down into a single point, Asami.

And that single point was deteriorating, tearing Takaba's frail sanity to bits and piece. His mind was a cloth with frayed edges, threads pulled at and shredded. He was a skyscraper built of fragile glass and stubborn steel; and his foundation was crumbling.

Asami…What ever was I to you…

Asami drew in another lungful of smoke.

Ha. If Akihito were here, he would-

He crushed the tip of cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing both the glowing edge and the thought.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips and seeped into the cold walls that never listened. Was he still obsessed over a boy? Two years, he thought as he looked down at the same Tokyo conglomerate that Takaba probably saw as his plane took off.

The city itself was cancer; too many neon signs, too many concrete buildings, asphalt highways, people, all growing out of control, rising from the dead and polluted soil asphyxiated with cement and landfills.

And perhaps he was cancer to Akihito. Perhaps that was why Takaba had left him. He probably couldn't stand to be invaded inside out.

For a year he had searched for Takaba, taking up any leads he could but coming up dry every time. It was like digging wells after wells in the desert. Any drop of hope that fell quickly evaporated into the dry, arid atmosphere that surrounded Asami. If anyone, Asami should have been able to find that one person in a world of 6.7 billion. With Takaba's indiscreet nature, he had expected the search to be easy, but it was as though the boy had left Earth altogether, disappeared beyond the stratosphere into the vacuum of outer space.

The apartment where Takaba used to live was eventually leased out again by a trio of college students, his job position quickly replaced with other petty photographers, none with his passion for the profession or his grace, both internal and external, and his friends gave up on the idea of his return.

What is anyone to do when a person completely detaches himself from his previous life? Takaba had even frozen all his previous emails, cut off contact absolutely and completely. He might as well have been dead to the world, at least to Asami's world. Takaba might as well have never "happened" in this world, a forgotten event, an unremarkable genocide.

Afterwards, Asami went through multiple "lovers" quickly and efficiently, but never quite found the same fire, the same heat. They were empty boxes he opened each and every time with disappointment. He quickly grew disillusioned at the failures.

The luster did not exist. The hunger and the thirst and the yearning were never quenched, never fulfilled, never relieved, and eventually, Asami cut his "love" life, if it could even be called that, into pieces, burnt it up on a funeral pyre, and resorted to quic

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

Alright. Come to my place at eight.""I won't be late."Takaba pushed the stiff door to his apartment open; the carpenters had done an awful job fitting it in, whoever they were. He hung his coat, wet and soggy from the melted snow, on the stand and slipped off his shoes and kicked them into a corner. He had about six days to get five good shots.In Tokyo, that probably wouldn't have been a problem, but his line of work in London was entirely different. It wasn't about getting the content anymore. It was about how he captured the content, and some of that change had leaked into his personality. He headed into the bathroom to wash his face, feeling particularly gloomy despite the ring on his finger.Maybe it was the ring that had him so pensive… He fingered the cold metal with his thumb. It had taken him by surprise. Such a concrete, tangible show of commitment.Asami… would Asami have done that? Could that kind of man show anything more than the carnal attractions that beasts felt? He smirked at himself.You fool, Akihito, you disillusioned fool…Flicking on the lights, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror. The food wasn't all that bad considering what he'd heard of London food, but it wasn't what he was accustomed to by any means. Too lazy and busy to cook, he forced himself to swallow the foreign food every meal, and two years of it had taken a toll on him.Ông rõ rệt mỏng hơn. Ông có thể cho biết từ cách má của mình hút trong chỉ là một chút nhiều hơn nó được sử dụng để. Quần của mình lỏng hơn xung quanh eo của mình, vành đai của mình đã đi một vài vòng nhỏ hơn, và áo sơ mi của mình cảm thấy một chút nhỏ lớn xung quanh thân mình. Trong điều kiện vật lý, Tuy nhiên, mái tóc của mình là có thể thay đổi đáng chú ý nhất của tất cả. Đen. Hạt dẻ sôi động có được hấp thụ vào một khoảng trống màu đen. Bên cạnh đó, dressers tóc ở London có thể không bao giờ có được màu sắc ngay nào.Nhưng đó là sự thay đổi nội bộ sốc anh ta nhất. Ông vẫn còn bị tra tấn bản thân trên Asami vào ban đêm và đã để lấy thuốc ngủ khi nó đã đặc biệt là xấu; ông đã giấu những viên thuốc từ Gyles. Có là không tung và biến, chỉ một stare trống tại trần nhà (nơi có neon sao dán để nó bởi một số kid có thể sống ở đó trước khi). Khi tâm trí của mình relived ngày của mình tại Tokyo, màu xanh lá cây neon hoà quyện ở trên anh ta, xoắn ốc giống như một người đột biến thiên hà Milky Way. Ông tỉnh dậy hai lần, ba lần một đêm vì lý do không có ở tất cả và khóc mình quay lại ngủ khi ông được một mình.Ông vẫn đã tìm thấy chính mình trong những tình huống nguy hiểm thay vì mặc dù. Gyles đã kịch liệt phản đối Takaba sẽ một số trong những nơi ông đã làm: Iraq, Sudan, Pakistan, Israel, Lebanon, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Cuba. Nó đã là bồi thường. Ông không thể buông cơn sốt ông đã trở nên quen với việc ở Tokyo. Ông đã dành nhiều tháng tại Iraq, theo một nhóm các chiến sĩ Hoa Kỳ.Takaba fingered the scar that ran from back of his shoulder to his collarbone, a momento from an IED that had gone off when the convoy he was in tripped a branch wire. The driver, a twenty year old from Iowa, or was that Ohio, he could never remember, died almost instantly, shrapnel imbedded into his jaw and skull, snapping the artery that led up to the brain.Pushing the bloody memory aside, Takaba opened the cabinet and dug through the bottles of shaving cream and aftershave, the mouthwash and lotions, until he found the small yellow bottle he was looking for.The inside contents were prescription drugs for those migraines, those awful headaches, that had started two years ago.The headaches started out slow, at first just light throbbing at the temples, and he had coped with small doses of Aspirin. Then those lost their effectiveness and the pain grew more frequent and more intense. He upped the ante to Tylenol. Then Vanquish, a combination of Aspirin and Tylenol. Those became close to useless and redundant and he began taking Aleve, which wasn't even really for headaches to begin with, hoping to make the intense agony in his skulls ebb even just a little bit. He probably had tried and thrown out every over-the-counter drug anyone could think ofFinally, he couldn't take the pain anymore and went to a doctor, who prescribed him Frionol. It had almost no effect what so ever. And now he was finally at Amerge, which only helped relieve his momentary pain, but for Takaba, it was enough. Pragmatic solutions were sufficient.He popped open the cap and with his other hand, let the water run into the sink. It was probably unwise to use the tap water, but he swallowed the white, beret shaped pill with it.It left a bitter, acrid aftertaste in his mouth.Takaba splashed his face and stared at the water spiral down, gurgling as it emptied into the pipes. Drips fell from the tip of his nose and he watched the ripples be engulfed into the tiny whirlpool. Exhaling softly, he closed the cabinet, shoving the cylindrical bottle into his jean pockets.Takaba treaded softly into a spare room that he used as a darkroom. The smell of fixer was especially concentrated here. Gyles had reprimanded him for keeping a darkroom in his own apartment, listing off the possible bodily harm these chemicals could do him, even offering him a developing studio he could use near the gallery, but this was just the way Takaba did things.The windows were covered with a thick, black panel and near the door was a black curtain that ran from floor to ceiling. The clear bulbs were replaced with red ones that shone sinisterly as Takaba flipped the switch on. They were ruby, demon eyes that watched him watching from the ceiling.It was out of "fashion," he knew, to still have a makeshift darkroom in his own home. Many of his colleagues, both in Tokyo and London, switched to digital or used professional, but Takaba was stubborn about the darkroom. It made his apartment feel… real. Not just a figment of his twisted imagination.His camera was still where he had left it, and he picked it up, along with the bag with the extra films and canisters. With another six or seven hours before heading to Gyles' place, he might as well take Gyles' advice and try his luck in urban London.He flicked off the red light, shutting the door tight so that the smell wouldn't diffuse through the entire apartment, and picked up his coat again. He planned on trying out the more run down parts of town. Everywhere else looked like pictures from a tourist guide book, certainly not the kind of photo that Takaba was in for.When he stepped outside, snow was still floating down gently from the cloudy sky. He couldn't help but be reminded of the sakura blooms in spring when a breeze shook them from their fragile branches. The snow covered signs and trees looked oddly like frozen versions of immature sakura trees in full bloom, and he couldn't help but wonder, did Asami ever took the time to enjoy those?Probably not, he was usually too busy riding in his BMW with a cell phone glued to his ears.Takaba sighed as the growing layer of snow crunched beneath his feet. It was… agonizing. Everything reminded him of something else, which led to another memory and so on until his mind strayed to Asami again. Every line and shape and plane in the complex geometry of his conscience spiraled down into a single point, Asami.And that single point was deteriorating, tearing Takaba's frail sanity to bits and piece. His mind was a cloth with frayed edges, threads pulled at and shredded. He was a skyscraper built of fragile glass and stubborn steel; and his foundation was crumbling.
Asami…What ever was I to you…

Asami drew in another lungful of smoke.

Ha. If Akihito were here, he would-

He crushed the tip of cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing both the glowing edge and the thought.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips and seeped into the cold walls that never listened. Was he still obsessed over a boy? Two years, he thought as he looked down at the same Tokyo conglomerate that Takaba probably saw as his plane took off.

The city itself was cancer; too many neon signs, too many concrete buildings, asphalt highways, people, all growing out of control, rising from the dead and polluted soil asphyxiated with cement and landfills.

And perhaps he was cancer to Akihito. Perhaps that was why Takaba had left him. He probably couldn't stand to be invaded inside out.

For a year he had searched for Takaba, taking up any leads he could but coming up dry every time. It was like digging wells after wells in the desert. Any drop of hope that fell quickly evaporated into the dry, arid atmosphere that surrounded Asami. If anyone, Asami should have been able to find that one person in a world of 6.7 billion. With Takaba's indiscreet nature, he had expected the search to be easy, but it was as though the boy had left Earth altogether, disappeared beyond the stratosphere into the vacuum of outer space.

The apartment where Takaba used to live was eventually leased out again by a trio of college students, his job position quickly replaced with other petty photographers, none with his passion for the profession or his grace, both internal and external, and his friends gave up on the idea of his return.

What is anyone to do when a person completely detaches himself from his previous life? Takaba had even frozen all his previous emails, cut off contact absolutely and completely. He might as well have been dead to the world, at least to Asami's world. Takaba might as well have never "happened" in this world, a forgotten event, an unremarkable genocide.

Afterwards, Asami went through multiple "lovers" quickly and efficiently, but never quite found the same fire, the same heat. They were empty boxes he opened each and every time with disappointment. He quickly grew disillusioned at the failures.

The luster did not exist. The hunger and the thirst and the yearning were never quenched, never fulfilled, never relieved, and eventually, Asami cut his "love" life, if it could even be called that, into pieces, burnt it up on a funeral pyre, and resorted to quic