There is a cartoon on every surface. Manic creatures crawl on all objects: manholes, stairs, doors, paper-towel dispensers, ladders, shopping carts, bathroom mirrors, cutlery.
Exploding colors everywhere.
They love the Roman alphabet just as we love kanji (I met somebody who’d gotten a chaos tramp-stamp when drunk; in Taiwan, a shocked woman said, “What man did this to you?” In fact, the tattoo said livestock). If you’re a lover of fragment poetry, it’s a feast:
World’s Skating Player Everyone Is First
Nobody Seems To Understand The Nature
Shining Diary What You Smile
It’s Splend I Don’t Know Whatto Don’t
Naturally your mind finds your language and tries to read it; it became disturbing—dyslexia blossoming. All walls shouting. Nowhere for eyes to rest. In cognitive exhaustion, I’d think I’d forgotten my language.
A friend of Kim’s told me he saw a bouncer in London with a tattoo across his muscled chest: NOODLES.