If the song "Rose Flower" by Quruli had sung about "gyoza" instead of "ginger ale," would it have turned into a song filled with such sourness? Probably not. The piping-hot, oversized gyoza piled heavily on the plate leave no time for indulging in such sentimental wistfulness. The aroma of garlic echoes directly in the brain. The meat juices plead with the stomach for "more." Gyoza turns us into animals in a matter of seconds. Even if it is past midnight.

I want to blame the fatigue of moving and unpacking for making me think about such silly things. After spending time living in Taipei, the base of my life has now settled in Murasakino. I am eating at "Sanpo no Gyoza" for the first time in eighteen years. Since I attended Ritsumeikan University, Imadegawa Street is my familiar old neighborhood. Now, as in the past, it must be the very last shop in the area to turn off its lights. I came here to eat several times with my juniors after studio sessions or live shows. We had no money, but the luxury of acting recklessly late at night made the end of the day feel that much more special.

I must honestly record that, until the very end, I could not recall if this was what the gyoza actually tasted like. When I opened the drawer of my memories, all that remained were the faces of the guys I had eaten with. In the first place, I hadn't retained the flavor anywhere. Around this time, the hydrangeas at Hirano Shrine are probably damp with the night dew. It wouldn't be a bad idea to drop by. Back then, I no longer remember what I was in such a rush for, pedaling my bicycle so desperately. I might not be able to find a reason to ride through the darkness anymore.