Greetings.
My name is Tezuka Kunimitsu. My identification papers say that I am 15 years old. I am the captain of the Seigaku tennis team. You may know me by my alias in the music underworld -- T-monkey. I answer to both of those as well as "Buchou". :|
Now, some people have said, T-monkey, you did not grow up in the Hood. You grew up in suburbia Tokyo. I say to them, "hood" is nothing but an abbreviation for "neighborhood". I say to them, "Hood" is nothing more than a state of mind. I have achieved that state of mind through my following of the musical prodigies t.A.T.u. and the usage of large, halluciogenic German sausages. They opened my eyes. If you would like a hook-up with a homie of mine who deals nothing but the finests of wursts, just ask.
Besides DJ-ing and winning at tennis, I greatly enjoy writing in my spare time. To let you get more of a feel for my style, I decided to post a drabble of mine. I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Ruminations Whilst Fishing
Author: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Rating: PG
Warnings: I do not think I need to warn for Love.
Notes: Dedicated to R. :|
When everything else has gone from my mind -- the player ranked #1 by the ATP, the static rumble of a breathless Grand Slam audience, the hot feel of the court beneath my feet, the rackets I have owned, and then my own name and what it was on this earth that I sought, and then at length the faces of my rivals and comrades, and finally the faces of my family -- when all this has dissolved, what will be left, I believe, is your face: eyes peaked to a harvest gold, lips a ripening crescent.
You were never everything else. You are the one I will serve for until the fleeting sun sets, until the inconstant moon wanes -- until the end of all things, for your returns finish the cycle and starts it anew. We push each other to new heights.
When I have nothing left to say -- pillared support to those who have relied on me, the wisdom I've found for the young and uncertain, dusky prayers for my fears and hopes, lies and truths and the unknown -- when all has dried up in my throat, what will be left, I believe, is your name.