There are many similar people in Yamanashi Prefecture; Akira doesn't see them as living organisms, passersby don't bother him, and the concept of life and death is meaningless to him. He smokes cigarettes, listens to jazz on Friday nights, drinks beer—but only a cold one—goes on dates—but never twice with the same girl—reads Western literature, and eats burnt bacon. Rides his bicycle to Fuji, strokes stray dogs, and takes lots of pictures; strangely enough, girls love him.

And Akira doesn't love anyone—unless you're talking about Sunday afternoons of idleness and the lawn in front of the university, filled photo albums with the beauty of women's bodies against the dusty books he stacks on the floor. Sometimes he drinks whisky in the bar and spends the night with girls; sometimes you ride the train with him on uncharted routes, drinking Coca-Cola among people faceless to you.

And you are, oddly, friends—or sometimes friends and sometimes dating—or it is called soulmates. Young students, living on part-time jobs and late studying, kissing after every new cigarette butt in the ashtray and revisiting photos on the small sofa—with you, the improvised date count is up to thirty-two.

Right now you're dating; the day before yesterday he was on a date at an obscure café on the outskirts of Yamanashi with a pretty economics student; today he's resting his cheek against your shoulder while you're trying to master his camera with a concentrated look.

The sky is cloudy; he calls it a caricature of unhappiness; you call it bad weather. He calls you a romantic dreamer; you call him a cold absurdist. He claims that life is absurd and has no meaning, but he recognizes the concept of it only in your hands.

"Do you even know how to set up focus?" Akira doesn't smile; his lips always seem to be slightly tightened, like a man trying to keep some secret; or maybe that's why girls like him—a mythical, mysterious guy with cold hands.

He'll light a cigarette and then kiss you—that's his way to smile.