I walk Kabukichō with my collar up. Rain on the curb, blood in the gutter light. Hostess girls laughing through smoke and perfume. Yakuza shadows lean where the vending signs bite. I am a night guide. I sell Tokyo after midnight. I found him in the crowd. He said his name was Frank. He had dead eyes. He had clean hands. He asked me questions I didn't want to answer. In the miso soup — the flesh floats to the top! In the miso soup — the knife never stops! He is something missing. He is something I know. In the miso soup — let me go. He took me to the club. The one with the red door. The one where girls don't leave. The one where nobody asks. He showed me what he does. He showed me what he is. He smiled like a broken door. And I knew I was already dead. He had no shadow. He had no smell. He told me nothing. I knew him well. In the miso soup — the flesh floats to the top! In the miso soup — the knife never stops! He is something missing. He is something I know. In the miso soup — let me go. In the back of the club, the ice tastes metallic. A girl in a school uniform stares like she's already gone. The clerk at the love hotel won't meet my eyes. He slides the key over like handing me a weapon. Frank is something missing. And I am something too. Something missing. Something missing. In the miso soup — the flesh floats to the top. In the miso soup — the knife never stops. Something missing. Let me go. In the miso soup — the flesh floats to the top! In the miso soup — the knife never stops! He is something missing. He is something I know. In the miso soup — let me go. The night is over. The rain has stopped. Frank is gone. But the knife never stops.
