Ofunaya Kichibee, leading the chant
When he gives a single shout to the heavens, “Hora!”
The oarsmen, as if to say, “We’ve been waiting!”
Call in good fortune, echoing back “Enya!”
It’s the Horaibune (Treasure Ship) of Matsue, bringing happiness
Horan-enya Horan-ee-e Easanosa

The air hung thick and viscous, stiflingly laden with an intimate heat. Utterly enthralled, the boys leaned forward on shallow, feverish breaths, surrendering themselves to an intoxicating obsession with the sheer act of touch. As the sweet, dense musk peculiar to the beast filled their senses, they moved as if encroaching upon a forbidden realm. With a trembling, almost reverent devotion, their soft, pallid fingertips slowly breached the contours of the orangutan’s fiery, russet, and fiercely untamed fur.

Along the rain-slicked coordinates of the alleyways, heavy cyber-EDM reformulations of the Kamata March reverberate, inducing structural oscillations within the rusted architecture. Street-level netrunners and cyborgs browse illegal brain-dance stalls, refueling their augmented biological frames with Neo-Hanetsuki Gyoza. To access the neural-booster cores, they snap through the high-polymer carbon wings, which contain a 24-hour surge of synthetic taurine. In order to survive the impending neural overload, they submerge their systems into Kuroyu—jet-black basins of organic nano-liquid functioning as cooling apparatuses to purge scorched memory logs beneath the erratic flickering of a holographic Mount Fuji.