The Art of Le Memori

Hello world. After a long journey of being a Japanese fashion micro-influencer in LA (Himetoki) to curating a few hodgepodge blogs after in ascertaining my true passion and voice, I decided to start Le Memori.

My soul has been on a journey, a culmination of the past worlds that I’ve been in, and floating across the Styx to the Thames, freshwater rivers ebb and flow in oscillations across wasabi shoots more expensive than gold, Spirited Away by Shinano, crashing into the pebbles like painters, poets and plays, tumbling into the Seine.

Daio Wasabi Farm: A Zen State of Mind, A Dead Village.


Le Memori is the taste of bitter tap water, the pure reflection of loneliness as one gazes into the reflection of their own Seine. For me, it’s the cogent soft margarine delicately rolled in Yoku Moku cigars, the iron of Pocari Sweat, crashed against the crass contours of escargo and candied Vichy carrots. This is the memory of my first date with him in Japan across the dazzling two-step Grand Jetés of thoughts across the Mona Lisa floor.

Monna Lisa, Ebisu Japan: Sands are diamonds of dirt shined in one’s mouth.

Do you see now, the power of memory? This power of Psyche even John Keats in his Odes to her cannot see what we in our each unique pair of eyes do; our memories in each hold a power greater  than Prometheus stole from the heavens to give to mankind.

Kiyomizudera: Even leaves of green turn red in ashes.

Memory, this art created by ourselves in an instant of time, emblazoned in the thane of the mind in its full sensory, this lux, this fire that one can only kindle for a moment in their hands before the cold breath of time extinguishes away.

It is still there, buried, deep down until flint fuels the phoenix again.