A knight accepts fate
Under blue sky, no regrets
The past comes to rest
A graceful princess
Learns how doors close quietly
The moon shines no more
Come cold dark winters
Violence should never touch
It kills from within
~ 2025/12/21
TITLE : In Between Transit SUBMISSION : "Sentiments" FORMAT : Collective zine ORGANIZER : (ig) @huntingfullsenyum PUBLISHED : 5 November 2025
Train stations have always felt like borrowed time to me. Spaces we pass through but never truly inhabit. We're allowed to exist there, but only temporarily, only in service of going somewhere else. The tension of in-between spaces, the pull of transitional movement has always drawn me in. I stood at Hamamatsuchō Station watching people move like water through a narrow channel. I wasn't looking for anything in particular when I saw a man inside a noodle shop, eating udon while standing. His bowl sat on the narrow counter in front of him. Everyone around him was moving, flowing toward platforms and exits, and he was there, paused but not quite still. I wondered if he even tasted it, or if the noodles were just fuel, something to get through before the next train came. Days later, at Nebukawa Station, I found myself waiting on a platform, and across the tracks I saw a woman sitting alone on a bench. She had nowhere urgent to be, or if she did, she wasn't letting it show. Her hands were folded in her lap. She was looking at nothing in particular, or maybe everything. The kind of waiting that doesn't check the clock every thirty seconds. I keep thinking about these two people. I've been holding these two moments together, turning them over. Both were in transit. Both alone in public. Both waiting for something to take them elsewhere. But one was standing between movement and one was sitting in stillness, and somehow that difference felt enormous. Maybe what I'm circling around is how we inhabit these liminal spaces—these thresholds that aren't quite departure and aren't quite arrival. Do we stand, ready to move the second the path clears? Or do we sit, claiming the in-between as its own kind of place? I don't know which one I am. Some days I'm the standing man. Some days I wish I were the sitting woman. Most days I'm both, caught between the need to keep moving and the ache to just stop and breathe in these threshold spaces that belong to no one.
Emails I wrote on October 8th and 11th 2024, but never sent.
October 8th, 2024
Dear Di,
I’m writing this from the balcony of my guesthouse in Tokyo. Well, actually, rather than a balcony it’s more of a laundry-drying area on the third floor that the manager lets the guests use. It’s almost 10 PM here, and I’m looking at a tall building across the way, its crown sparkling with white and blue-ish lights. To my left, I can hear the rhythmic buzz of trains moving through the night, that particular Tokyo sound that never quite stops.
I feel like an alien here. Like that jazz song you love: “Englishman in New York”, except I’m some lost soul in Tokyo. Maybe it’s because I don’t speak the language and can’t read most of the signs. Or maybe it’s just because I miss you so dearly.
Earlier tonight, I walked to the konbini to grab some drinks for me and my friend. On my way back, I stopped in front of a vending machine. I don’t know why I stopped there. I’d already bought what I needed. I just stood there under my umbrella in the light drizzle, staring at it. The white LED light illuminating the rows of drinks inside, all those bottles and cans lined up so perfectly. I stood there with empty eyes, letting the rain patter on the umbrella, and I thought about you.
I missed you. I miss you.
I wish I was drunk right now. So I’d have the courage to actually send you this letter.
But no. I am completely sober.
I’m drinking a banana milk I picked up from the konbini and lit a cigarette even though I’m trying to quit. The smoke curls up and disappears into thin air. The early autumn air is sharp and cold in a way that makes me feel awake, almost painfully present.
The cold breeze bites at my hands as I type this on my phone. I should go inside, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I haven’t finished my drink, haven’t finished my cig. And certainly I haven’t finished thinking about you.
Sat.
October 11th, 2024
Nadine,
Today I visited temples and shrines around Kamakura. I watched the locals do some praying ritual, and I eventually did the praying ritual myself. In one of the praying, I prayed for you.
I asked that you be safe, that you be happy, that life treats you gently.
I don’t even know who I was talking to. The Kami-sama of that particular shrine? Or some other ancient deity? Would a Japanese god even grant a prayer for someone in a different country, over five thousand kilometers away?
I don’t know. But in that moment, it felt natural to slip your name into my prayer.
Afterward, I sat on the beach for a long time, just staring at the water. The waves coming in, going out. People walking by with their families, their friends, their dogs.
I haven’t sent the last email I wrote to you. Maybe I never will. I don’t know.
I remember one time you encouraged me to write you a letter. A real one, you said. One where I pour my heart out, where I don’t hold back. You told me I had a passion for writing but that I always kept it lowkey, never felt confident enough to show my work to anyone. If I’m being honest, I hated the idea. I hate pouring my heart out, hate being that vulnerable. And you knew that about me.
But you were also the one who encouraged me to lower my guard. To try, even if it scared me.
I never actually told you this, but you’re one of the only people I’ve ever felt truly comfortable being vulnerable with. You didn’t even have to ask. It just happened. Around you, the walls came down without me noticing.
So here I am, sitting on a beach on the other side of the world, finally writing you that letter. The one you asked for. Except you’re not here to read it, and I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.
I meant to buy you an omamori today. One of those protective charms they sell at the shrines. Something to keep you safe, or maybe just a keepsake to remember this trip by. But I walked right past them. I forgot.
Maybe that’s fitting. I always seem to forget the important things until it’s too late.
The sun is setting now. The sky is bleeding pink into orange across the horizon. It’s beautiful. I wish you were here to see it.
Sat.
Almost every day, a gray cat comes to a man’s house. There’s one thing the cat and the man have in common: both of them have problems with their left legs. The gray cat only has three functioning legs. Its front left leg was amputated a year ago after a fierce duel with a neighborhood cat. The man’s left leg is broken from being hit by a motorcycle. Fractured tibia and fibula. He can barely walk without his crutches.
Almost every day, the gray cat with three legs comes to the man’s house. The cat knows there’s a bowl full of cat food waiting inside. Every morning, the man prepares food for his two cats in the kitchen. He sets out the bowls on the floor, the same ritual every morning. There’s a window the gray cat uses to sneak inside, the same window the man sometimes forgets to close.
The gray cat is not his. It belongs to his neighbor.
Almost every day, the man with a broken leg drives the gray cat with three legs out of his house. He doesn’t like it when the gray cat eats food that isn’t meant for him. His own two cats just stand there when the gray cat sneaks inside. They don’t protest or hiss. They simply back away from their own bowls as the intruder eats, as if they are afraid of him.
At first, the man just shoos the cat away, waving his hand and raising his voice. The gray cat runs out immediately, hobbling on three legs. But with every passing day, the gray cat grows bolder and bolder. When the man shoos him now, the cat barely flinches. He continues eating, one ear flicked back in acknowledgment but otherwise unbothered.
Now the man has to chase the gray cat out of his house. It creates a comical show: a crippled man pursuing a crippled cat. The man lurches forward on his crutches, trying to corner the thief. The gray cat limps away, unable to run quickly, but still managing to stay just out of reach. They move through the kitchen in an awkward, stumbling dance—both of them dragging their bad left legs, both of them refusing to give up.
Sometimes the man remembers to close the window. On those mornings, he sees the gray cat sitting outside, staring at the window. The cat waits. The man eats his breakfast and pretends not to notice.
But sometimes he forgets.
Almost every day, a man with a broken leg chases a gray cat with three legs out of his house.
The gray cat always comes back.
One must assume the clown in Edward Hopper’s Soir Bleu is happy.
You flash your skyscrapers and subway lines,
your billboards screaming fortune, fame, and more.
But past the neon glow and advert signs,
you’re grinding gears and blood on every floor.
I packed my life and rode your crowded trains,
traded small-town dust for concrete air.
I walked your streets, learned your lanes—
but you don’t give a damn, you never play fair.
I find myself in the middle of the street
trying to walk and I scream on my first step
burning excruciating pain I cannot compete.
A black dog, chewed on my leg
for a split second. as the rubber
meets the bone, as my body becomes
another casualty, slammed into
your unforgiving asphalt.
And you laugh. You fucking laugh.
You sent me your dog not with teeth,
but rubber wheels, with black helmet
and dead eyes, and he didn’t even stop.
You coward don’t have the balls to
look me in the eyes as you beat me.
The X-ray shows the damage:
fractured trust,
shattered plans,
broken hopes and dreams,
bleeding despair.
The doctor said I’m lucky.
LUCKY?
You call this LUCKY?
You want gratitude?
While you pay me with a hit-and-run ambush?
Where is the poetry in that?
Where is the kindness in your tangled traffic?
Where is the apology in your sirens?
You’ve got the rhythm of a broken machine,
a soul of a debt collector, with smog-choked skies,
where the oceans bleed into the cold cracking concrete.
I should have known better.
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.
And you—
you go on.
You fucking go on.
The city always wins.
It always does.
After the meeting ended, I went back to my desk and immediately opened WhatsApp.
“Bro, you free tonight? Pak gede?”
“After hour?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, see you at the station.”
I locked my phone and got back to work, finishing whatever was left for today.
We met up at the station. It was not too crowded. I had decided to leave the office earlier to avoid the rush hour.
We headed out and walked to the store next to the east exit. We ordered two nasi campur spesial and sat at a table in the second row, backs against the wall. The ceiling fan overhead moved the warm air around. The evening crowd was starting to fill the surrounding tables.
While waiting for the food, I told him about my day. It was a shitty day at work. About the project that kept changing scope. About the client who couldn’t make decisions. About how tired I was of all of it. He listened, nodding occasionally while observing the other patrons who are mostly workers like us, still in their office clothes.
When the food arrived, I automatically stopped yapping and immediately dig the food. The rice, the meat, the sambal, everything was perfectly seasoned. It was exactly what I needed. For a while, we ate in silence.
When we finished our plates, I sat back and looked around the small shop. The plastic stools, the worn tables, the aunt shouting orders to the kitchen. Everything felt simple here.
“This is actually nice, you know.” I took a sip of my iced tea. “Now I understand why you come to this place whenever you’re stressed about something.”
He just smiled.
“I told you!” He gestured around with his fork. “It’s not fancy, but the food’s good. That kind of soul food you need when you had a shitty day.”
I nodded. Good food with a good friend. Sometimes that’s all you need to get through a rough day.
I don’t consider myself a moon guy. I’m more of a stars guy myself. I like those thousands of little dots scattered across the night sky that are actually great balls of fire. But every now and then, I do prefer the moon over the stars, especially during a full moon. You know, you can’t see a full moon every day. During special occasions like this, I genuinely adore the moon.
I was just looking at the weather app on my phone this afternoon, trying to check whether tomorrow would bring rain. Then I scrolled to the bottom and found that today (or tonight) would be a full moon. Well, not the FULL MOON – full moon, the weather app said “Waning Gibbous”. I was late by one day. The actual full moon was yesterday. Well, whatever. I always consider the full moon to last for three days anyway.
My plan was simple: I would watch the moonrise while enjoying some drinks. One thing about observing celestial objects from planet Earth is that they always look bigger when they rise and when they set. There’s something about being close to the horizon that makes the sun and moon appear larger, creating a more dramatic effect.
The moonrise would start at 6:18 PM, according to the weather app. I was three hours late. I was occupied by watching this K-Drama about a group of former national athletes who became cops. Before I went to the rooftop, I picked up a drink from the fridge and grabbed this ceramic tea cup I bought from an artisan pottery shop in town. I chose this one cup because of its unique design: a white tea cup without a handle, with white glaze that makes it look like ice cream melted around the outer edge of the cup.
I deliberately don’t turn on the rooftop lights. I don’t want any light to distract me. Tonight is all about the moonlight. I sound like a werewolf who will transform tonight, but trust me, I’m not.
Tonight’s drink is cold brew tea that’s been sitting in the fridge for five days. The pitcher is almost empty, so I might as well drink it all for this occasion. This has become something of a ritual for me. These solitary moon-watching sessions while enjoying some drinks. Sometimes it’s coffee, sometimes soda, rum, or beer. But tonight, it’s this forgotten tea, perfectly chilled and ready to accompany my late rendezvous with the moon.
I sit on top of the low concrete wall, barely knee-high, trying to balance myself so I don’t fall sideways. I pour my drink into the cup, raise it high up in the air, and make a gesture like I’m toasting the moon. “Salut!” I say almost like a whisper, feeling slightly ridiculous but oddly satisfied.
Then I just sit there. And sit. And sit some more. Staring at the moon like it might suddenly do something interesting, sipping my tea slowly—melancholically. The silence stretches on, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional motorcycle revving in the distance. I raise my cup again in another respectful toast. The moon really is beautiful tonight, hanging there like a slightly imperfect pearl against the dark sky.
My mind starts to wander, as it always does during these quiet moments. I find myself thinking about the past. I remember back in high school I participated in the National Science Olympiad (OSN) for Astronomy at the city level—I ended up winning first place. There is this one topic that I still remember to this day, which is apparent magnitude. To put it simply, it’s a way to measure a celestial object’s relative brightness. The full moon has an apparent magnitude of -12.60. Twenty-five thousand times brighter than the brightest star from planet Earth, which is Sirius A. It’s fascinating that among other topics like coordinate systems,**celestial mechanics, redshift, or stellar classification, this one topic about apparent magnitude sticks with me to this day
It’s funny how the moon connects to so many memories. I remember Luna, my old friend who I haven’t seen in maybe a decade. Her name literally means the moon. There’s something beautiful about how parents around the world choose to name their children after the moon. In any language, in any culture, people seem to agree that the moon is worth honoring this way. Luna in Latin, Selene in Greek, Chandra in Sanskrit, Yue in Chinese. Each culture looks up at the same celestial companion and thinks, “Yes, this is beautiful enough to name my child after”. It speaks to something universal about human nature. How we’re drawn to beauty, how we want to carry a piece of that wonder with us through our names, our stories, our quiet moments like this one. The moon has been humanity’s companion for millennia, and here I am, continuing that ancient tradition of simply sitting and appreciating its presence.
I manage to stay up there for about an hour, just sitting and thinking and occasionally toasting the moon with my slowly diminishing tea. But eventually, nature calls, and I have to head back inside. My bladder, unfortunately, doesn’t care about my philosophical moon-gazing session.
Before I head back inside, while picking up the pitcher and the cup, I’m already planning my next date with the moon. I’ll bring two cups next time—one for me, one for the moon, because it feels right somehow. I’ll bring a drink of my choice, whatever strikes my fancy that night. And I’ll bring a book, something good that I can read by moonlight. I’ll stay longer next time, really settle in for the evening. There’s something appealing about the idea of reading while the moon watches over me, like having a quiet, luminous companion for the night.
Wherever it might be, I’m looking forward to the next date.
TITLE : Postcards from Japan
PROJECT : Postcards to a friend
FORMAT : Printed postcard-sized photos (8)
with handwritten messages
SENT : November 2024
To my friend who wants to go to Japan but hasn’t had the opportunity to do so, I hope one day that opportunity comes, and you can enjoy Japan wholeheartedly. In the meantime, hold onto these postcards.
—Sat
What we ate during this trip, besides onigiri, bento box, and sandwiches from konbini:
On the second day, we were attempting to walk a half-marathon distance (21 km) across Tokyo. An ambitious plan, as it turned out we were too tired by the end and only finished 18 km. Other than the planned stops like Suga Shrine, the Setagaya public toilet, and 21\_21 Design Sight, we saw a lot of interesting things along the way. A couple doing a photo shoot in wedding dress, the Tokyo National Stadium rising against the skyline, and then, unexpectedly, these sumo athletes. I’m not sure where exactly they came from or where they were headed. But it felt oddly cinematic. I think that’s the charm of experiencing a city by walking through it. It slows everything down, puts you right up close to the city’s life, one step at a time.
You will find many shrines and temples across Japan. When I was in Kamakura, I visited shrines and temples. I did some praying in two different shrines. I learned how to do the praying ritual by observing how the locals do it.
Not all travel stories are fun and all. I had a “bad day” too during this trip. On the third day, we went to an outskirt area called Tokorozawa, Saitama. We planned to walk from the Totoro fund house to Sayama Lake, then to Sayama Lakeside Cemetery. The thing is, it was raining all day long. And Tokorozawa is a rural area. We walked through small village roads, farms, plantations, and forest. It was like trekking or hiking. As a person who dislikes rain, this situation was hellish. But not for Adi. He really enjoyed the rain. He imagined he was the main character in some anime world or something, while I was nagging the whole trek. It wasn’t just the rain; it was the combination of the rain, the trek, the atmosphere, and being completely wet. Imagine trekking through a tea plantation in the rain. Something like that. It became more enjoyable later when we went to the neighboring town for lunch. The rain didn’t bother us as much then.
In this trip, I was accompanied by my architect friend. Some of our destinations were architecture objects. I could say, for him, it was something close to an architecture pilgrimage. He told me about some architect figures like Tadao Ando, Kengo Kuma, and Le Corbusier. He also taught me a little bit about architecture: the material, the facade, the form, etc. I listened and looked, and slowly started to see what he was seeing.
But my favorite spot was the Tokyo International Forum, and it wasn’t even in our itinerary. On the fourth day, while we were strolling around, we stumbled onto it by accident. The place is enormous. And what strikes me first is the verticality of it. A soaring glass atrium that feels simultaneously open and enclosed, like being inside a cathedral made of light. The ceiling climbs so high above me that it made me feel very, very small standing there. Like genuinely small.
If I ever visit Tokyo again, I would not go to Shibuya Crossing. It’s way too crowded, and not in a thrilling way. The kind of crowd that makes you anxious. Too many people from every direction and you just wanna get out from there. My friend felt it too: got overwhelmed, and need to leave. Most people there aren’t actually trying to get anywhere. They’re crossing the intersection just to experience the crossing itself, phones raised, rushing through the crowd, then turning around to do it again. I get it. I did it too. But once is enough. It’s more of a spectacle than an experience, and it fades quickly.
There was one thing I really wanted to do while in Japan: experience an onsen. I convinced Adi to include Hakone in our itinerary after visiting Odawara. Honestly, I didn’t know much about Hakone at first. I just noticed on the map that it was close, and a quick search told me it was famous for its onsen. Good enough reason.
The experience itself was genuinely awkward. Being completely naked in a public hot spring bath, surrounded by a couple of nihonjin men, and being the only gaijin in the room has a way of making you hyperaware of yourself. The nihonjin men acted completely normally. We did not.
Eventually I mustered up my courage and just went with it: walked to the open bath confidently, pretending no one was looking. Adi, on the other hand, remained shy throughout, still covering himself by the time I’d fully committed to the bit.
Verdict: it was a new, awkward, and oddly freeing experience. Would do it again.
All photos are shot on film using Pentax MX + SMC Pentax-M 50mm f/2 lens Film stock (in order): 1. KW 800T 2. Kodak Pro Image 100 3. Ilford HP5 plus 400 4. Fujifilm Fujicolor 100 5. Kodak Portra 800 6. Fujifilm Superia X-Tra 400 (expired) 7. Kodak Portra 400 8. Fujifilm Fujicolor 100
Last night, I watched a Korean drama that’s recently gained popularity. It’s about the lives of OBGYN residents at a medical center. Watching the story unfold made me think of you, somehow. I was always curious about your days in the hospital. Did your senior doctor ever yell at you? Did you pull all-nighters at the hospital?
I know you’re a GP, not a resident doctor. But that’s not a big difference, right?
Or am I wrong?
Well, I might be wrong.
It’s kind of sad that you never told me how your days went at the hospital. What it’s like navigating long chaotic nights or dealing with tough patients. I asked you several times about your routine, but you never let me in on it. And you never told me what kind of doctor you want to be, either. You didn’t give me even the smallest hint. But, you know what, I believe you’ve already decided which specialty you want to pursue. You just need the time and support to take that next big step.
One thing I noticed in the show is that the doctors drink coffee every day, sometimes too much. It made me wonder: Are all doctors like this? Did you pick up your high coffee consumption after becoming a doctor, or should I call it an addiction? I’m not going to nag you about the risks of too much caffeine—you probably know more about that than I do. If I could help you a little bit, I’d love to buy you another double-shot iced hazelnut latte, just like last year. Maybe I’d throw in two es kopi susu for the nurses, too.
Tonight is the final episode of the show. I hope the doctors get the ending they deserve. The same goes for you, I hope you have the good life you deserve. I hope you’re finding your way, day by day, growing into the kind of person you want to be, a better person for yourself and those around you. And I hope you can enjoy a nice double-shot iced hazelnut latte during your shift. I know we don’t talk anymore, but happy birthday.