September. Early evening at Nakamura-sans studio/house outside Fukuoka. It’s not yet even an hour since we arrived by train from Yokohama. Kazuyoshi, Horikitsune, Horikazu and myself. Nakamura-sans two apprentices picked us up in cars at the station, and now we sit here in the humid but pleasant heat, Cikadas serenading outside and sun setting over the rooftops of the quiet neighbourhood. I smoke and listen to Horikitsune and the others speak to each other in Japanese. During this fifth journey to Japan the language is dressing itself up in familiar clothes and I am able to follow along even though the words are mostly wonderful mysteries to me. We speak about the heart of Irezumi and listen to Nakamura-san when he explains the way he works, how everything works. I nod and think to myself, that strangers are sometimes long lost friends simply waiting to be met once again.
On the wall across the room, high up, is a framed copy of an old photograph. It seems to from the late 1800’s and the frame is overflowing with samurai, ghosts of the past and the now. I recognize some of the men in the photograph but can’t really place them. Probably from some book I read some years ago about everything and nothing. I make a mental note, reminding myself to ask Nakamura-san later on, but the moment never presents itself. I drift back into the conversation, as a voice that never left it for more than a few brief seconds. This night, in this little quiet room outside Fukuoka time never ends.