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It’s said that if you’re drawn to a particular city, it means someone is there waiting for you, or there’s a part of your story there already written, awaiting your discovery. If that's true, the person waiting for me in Tokyo is my higher self, and what’s written is the chapter where I’m disgustingly wealthy, romping around Harajuku like a matcha-fueled sprite.
My name is Chanelle, and I am attached to my mystique. A dollop of privacy in the ether; the sexiness of solitude; the echoing voices reverberating through the amphitheater of my mind. These things are lovely and delicious to me, kept tucked under my wings like a cooing dove.
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