There is something inherently poetic about journeys to the north. Perhaps it is the promise of solitude, the crispness of the air, or the quiet understanding that the further one travels from the metropolis, the closer one comes to nature's embrace. Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island, had long been on my list of places to visit, not for its famed powder snow or its summer flower fields, but for the simple reason that it seemed so unlike the Japan I knew.

With most of my relatives in Tokyo and Kyoto, and one in Osaka, I had never found a reason to visit Hokkaido—until now.

As our plane descended over New Chitose Airport, I pressed my forehead against the windowpane, hoping for a glimpse of the island's famed landscapes. Unlike the dense urban sprawl of Tokyo or the historic charm of Kyoto, Hokkaido stretched out in vast, uninterrupted swathes of wilderness. There were no skyscrapers racing towards the heavens, no train lines crisscrossing like the lifelines of a pulsing city. Instead, there were forests blanketed in white, roads flanked by towering snowbanks, and the occasional farmhouse standing alone in the elements—a scene that would not have been out of place in northern Europe.

The airport itself was unhurried, a stark contrast to the sensory overload of Narita or Kansai International. Even the staff seemed more relaxed, their movements less choreographed, their greetings more subdued. Outside, the cold hit me like an old friend I had not seen in years. It was not the damp, bone-chilling winter of Tokyo, but a dry, crisp cold that sharpened the senses and made every inhalation feel cleaner, purer. Hokkaido, it seemed, had already begun to distinguish itself.

Sapporo, the island's capital, was our first stop. A city built on a grid system, it was refreshingly straightforward to navigate. Yet, for all its modernity, it lacked the relentless pace of Japan's other major cities. There were no salarymen sprinting for their trains, no umbrella-wielding crowds squeezing through Shibuya-like crossings. The city breathed differently—its rhythm dictated not by neon signs and corporate towers but by the slow fall of snow and the warmth of a well-timed bowl of miso ramen.

Hokkaido's people, too, bore the markings of their environment. They seemed hardier, their demeanour more reserved than their counterparts in Honshu. But there was a kindness in their quietness, a warmth that emerged in small acts—a shopkeeper offering us extra napkins as we fumbled with our hot coffee, a station attendant who took the time to explain the train schedules without the brusqueness of someone bound by efficiency. It was a hospitality that felt effortless, unembellished, and deeply genuine.

Perhaps what struck me most in those first few hours was the silence. In Tokyo, silence is a rarity, snatched in the moments between train announcements and the hum of conversation. But in Hokkaido, silence is abundant. It rests between the falling snowflakes, lingers in the stretches of road that seem to lead to nowhere, and settles in the way people carry themselves—deliberate, unhurried, and content in their own space.

As the first evening fell and the streetlights cast a soft glow on the snow-covered pavements, I realised that Hokkaido was not merely a destination but an entirely different state of being. It was Japan, yes, but a Japan that existed at its own pace, shaped by its landscape rather than by industry, by seasons rather than by schedules. And for the first time in a long time, I felt no urge to rush anywhere.

There are places in every city that feel like a home away from home—where familiarity entwines with nostalgia, and the simple act of shopping takes on the comforting cadence of ritual. For me, that place is IFC City’Super. Nestled in the heart of Hong Kong’s financial district, this high-end gourmet supermarket is more than a mere marketplace; it is a sanctuary for food lovers, a microcosm of the world’s finest produce, and a portal through which the flavours of my travels come alive.

The moment I step through its glass doors, a quiet sense of belonging washes over me. The store is a treasure trove of culinary wonders, its aisles brimming with delicacies from across the globe—artisanal cheeses from France, teas from Kyoto, hand-crafted chocolates from Belgium, and pantry staples from Britain and beyond. Here, foods that once seemed exclusive to the cobbled streets of Paris or the bustling markets of London stand neatly arranged on gleaming shelves, waiting to be rediscovered.

I always find myself drawn towards the seafood and meat sections, where the freshest catches and the finest cuts await. The seafood display is a spectacle unto itself—rows of glistening oysters, plump and briny, nestled beside thick fillets of Norwegian salmon, their delicate marbling a promise of rich, buttery indulgence. The selection rivals that of any European fishmonger, a testament to City’Super’s unwavering commitment to quality.

Beyond the treasures of the ocean lies an equally tantalising spread of premium meats. Wagyu beef, its deep ruby hue marbled with intricate veins of fat, is a luxury I can rarely resist. Whether it is an A5-grade Japanese cut for a weekend celebration or a simple yet exquisite Australian ribeye, the choices are impeccable. The butchers, meticulous in their craft, handle each order with the precision of artisans, ensuring that every selection is nothing short of perfection.

No visit to City’Super is complete without a stop at the wine enclave, where bottles from Bordeaux’s rolling vineyards, Tuscany’s sun-drenched estates, and Napa Valley’s storied cellars await. Whether I seek a robust red to accompany a chargrilled steak or a crisp white to pair with a seafood feast, the options never disappoint. I can lose myself for hours here, reading labels, contemplating vintages, and revelling in the quiet pleasure of selecting the perfect bottle.

Adjacent to the wine section lies another corner of temptation—the cheese counter. Here, wheels of brie ooze their creamy centres, wedges of comté exude a warm nuttiness, and blocks of stilton tempt with their sharp, blue-veined allure. The variety is staggering, conjuring memories of Parisian fromageries and the bustling cheese markets of Borough. Each visit presents an opportunity to explore new flavours, to sample old favourites, to bring home a taste of somewhere far away.

Of all the delicacies that City’Super offers, few captivate me as much as the Spanish hams. The Iberico ham, carved from the famed Iberian pigs of Spain, is a marvel of patience and tradition. Rich, nutty, and intensely savoury, each delicate slice melts on the tongue, a testament to the centuries-old craftsmanship behind its curing. Whether it is a prized jamón ibérico de bellotaor a more understated serrano, the selection is unrivalled, making it impossible to leave empty-handed.

City’Super is more than just a place to shop; it is an experience, a culinary journey through the world’s finest markets distilled into a single, beautifully curated space. It is where I unearth ingredients I thought I had left behind in my travels, where I reconnect with flavours that bring comfort and joy.

Each visit is a quiet affirmation that home is not merely a place, but a feeling—one that lingers in the taste of a perfectly ripe wheel of cheese, a bottle of well-aged Bordeaux, or a platter of fresh oysters on ice. And in the heart of Hong Kong, amidst the skyscrapers and the city’s frenetic pace, City’Super is where I always find my way back home.

Some places are remembered for their grandeur; others, for the way they make you feel. The Hong Kong Club, to me, was both. It was a place where decorum met leisure, where the clink of cutlery echoed against the quiet hum of conversation, and where my younger brother, Alex, and I, under the watchful yet relaxed presence of our father, grew to appreciate the finer details of life.

We were teenagers then, still discovering the unspoken rules of the adult world, but old enough to understand that the Hong Kong Club was not just a building—it was an institution. Its exterior was stately but unassuming, a discreet yet imposing presence in the heart of Central. The façade was neither ostentatious nor flashy, but its very existence spoke of legacy and continuity, a quiet nod to the city’s colonial past while firmly planted in its cosmopolitan present.

Inside, the club exuded a timeless elegance. Polished wood-panelled walls, deep carpets that softened every step, and chandeliers casting a warm glow over well-dressed patrons engaged in quiet conversation. The atmosphere was refined but not stiff—it was the kind of place where men in tailored suits sat with ease, where waiters moved with efficiency and grace, where members exchanged nods and greetings in a manner that suggested familiarity rather than exclusivity.

Alex and I had already been introduced to fine dining in London at quite a young age, where our parents had taught us the importance of etiquette. In the UK, we even attended etiquette classes, learning the nuances of table manners, the correct way to hold cutlery, and the subtleties of conversation over a formal meal. But experiencing it in Hong Kong, as teenagers in a private club steeped in tradition, felt different. The Garden Lounge became the backdrop to these memories, a space where we dined in a refined yet relaxed setting, taking in the city through its large windows as we indulged in the buffet lunch. The spread was generous and carefully curated—silver chafing dishes lined up in a seamless row, lids lifted to reveal steaming selections of roast meats, delicate dim sum, and an array of salads so artfully arranged that one felt guilty disturbing their composition. There was always something deeply satisfying about the ritual of a buffet—the slow perusal of options, the careful selection of what to place on one’s plate, the unspoken challenge of going back for seconds without appearing greedy.

Even as teenagers, Alex and I knew that the setting demanded a certain level of decorum. We dressed the part—tailor-made suits, polished shoes, our ties neatly knotted as we followed our father into the club’s elegant halls. It was not about mere compliance with the dress code; it was about an appreciation for the occasion. The formality was not a burden but a pleasure, a way of marking the moment as something special.

Yet, there were places within the club that remained tantalisingly out of reach. Grand ballrooms and function rooms, ornately decorated for formal events, where adults in tuxedos and evening gowns gathered for exclusive galas, charity dinners, and society functions. Alex and I were too young to enter, but that never stopped us from taking a peek. Sometimes, a door would be left slightly ajar, or we would catch a brief glimpse through frosted glass panels—just enough to see a shimmering chandelier, the soft flicker of candlelight on impeccably set tables, the glint of polished silver under the glow of antique sconces. It felt like a world apart, a place of quiet sophistication and whispered conversations, where the city's elite gathered in a setting that was at once intimate and imposing.

Of course, the club was not all formality. It was also a place of leisure. The squash courts became our battleground, the rhythmic sound of the ball against the walls punctuated by laughter and the occasional triumphant cheer. Alex, ever the more competitive of the two of us, pushed me to be faster, sharper, more strategic. Bowling was a different kind of enjoyment—less about competition, more about camaraderie. There was something satisfying about the smooth release of the ball, the momentary suspense as it rolled towards the pins, followed by the gratifying crash of a well-placed strike.

Years later, we returned. This time, we were not just guests of our father, but invitees to an event hosted by one of his friends. It was held in the Hong Kong Room, one of the club’s most distinguished spaces, reserved for the kind of gatherings we once peered into from the outside. The room was everything we had imagined—high ceilings, heavy drapes, oil paintings that bore silent witness to the passing years. The tables were set with meticulous precision, the cutlery aligned as if placed by an unseen hand that had done so a thousand times before. There was an undeniable charm in knowing that we had, in some ways, come full circle—not just as young men now allowed into these hallowed spaces, but as individuals who had, over the years, learned to appreciate the nuances of the world the club represented.

The Hong Kong Club was, and still is, a microcosm of the city itself—structured yet adaptable, steeped in tradition yet alive with the present. It was where I first learned that elegance was more than just appearance, that formality was not a restriction but an art. And above all, it was where I learned that the best afternoons are those spent in good company, dressed well, playing hard, and savouring the quiet dignity of a place where tradition and refinement come together effortlessly.

Nothing much to really write about. Schools boring. OH ACTUALLY WE HAD PANCAKES TODAYY. Such a slay.

Also, I said something like reallllly fucking dumb and my friends won't shut the fuck up.

This is something that I feel has been kind of forgotten in a lot of people, but your story needs to breathe a bit. Filler is the writer's giving things time to settle and for actions previous taken in a story to settle and the reader to process what has happened. There are so many examples in movies, TV, games and books where the plot seems to just slow to an almost halt while the characters do something else. Harry and his friends still go to school and have classes, characters in D&D are given down time to do with as they please, Simba fucks off into the wild to live a carefree life, etc.

These scenes don't serve, mostly, to forward the plot and that is perfectly okay.

Not every scene needs to further the main plot because it allows the story to relax and breathe before continuing on to the main beat. Most of life is what I would classify as filler between major life moments like your first job, your first kiss, the death of a loved one, etc. Life should not be constant and quick jumps from major point to point so neither should your writing. Even if your setting takes place in the heart of a brutal war, take time for your character to muse on the things they've done, the horrors they've seen and the people they fight alongside. Let your work breathe and settle so that the important story beats seem to mean more and you can still use your filler in worthwhile ways.

Fullmetal Alchemist has almost an entire episode devoted to Alphonse having some slight doubt of what Edward has told him about being his brother. If this was removed in favor of more plot points delving into the political undertones of the plot or their quest to find a way to return their limbs and mother, nothing would change. However, the scene allows us to see that a character began to doubt what he had been told and it is up to the people around him to prove that he is in fact who they say he is and that they care about him not just being a giant suit of armor. The scene doesn't further any of the plots, but instead lets us get to know a bit about the characters and some of their doubts.

Long story short, filler is not boring and is necessary. Let your readers have a chance to relax and process your story before continuing to the next part, but remember to not do it too much. Everything in moderation and all that.

Have a day...

[Verse]

You are my tranquility, you are my bliss

Your voice is what pushes me off the abyss

It's like I can breathe when I'm in your arms

A touch of your warm hand can heal my scars

You're my fearless hero, my marvelous muse

When you're with me, I know I will never lose

[Pre-Chorus]

You're my leader, my pure diamond

My brightest star, my truest legend

I'm your fortune, your best chapter

You're a lion that can take torture

[Chorus]

When the ocean rages, when the storm hits

You're my safe kingdom, my charming prince

My hypnotic melody, my piercing symphony

Somethin' inside tells me you’re my destiny

If I beg for help and scream out your name

You rush into thick smoke and heavy rain

With no doubts, with no fear of bleeding

Acting like a true hero you've always been

[Post-Chorus]

Oh, baby, be my anchor in the ocean

Without you, I am like a lonely swan

Oh, baby, be my refuge in the storm

Without you I am weak and broken

[Verse 2]

You are my soulmate, you are my guard

Your voice is what pulls me out of the dark

It's like I can face all my worst nightmares

A touch of your soft lips can break any spell

You're my bravest wolf, my unshakable wall

When I'm next to you, I will make it to shore

[Pre-Chorus]

You're my leader, my pure diamond

My brightest star, my truest legend

I'm your fortune, your best chapter

You're a lion that fears no torture

[Chorus]

When the ocean rages, when the storm hits

You're my safe kingdom, my charming prince

My hypnotic melody, my piercing symphony

Somethin' inside tells me you’re my destiny

If I beg for help and scream out your name

You rush into thick smoke and heavy rain

With no doubts, with no fear of bleeding

Acting like a true hero you've always been

[Post-Chorus]

Oh, baby, be my anchor in the ocean

Without you, I am like a lonely swan

Oh, baby, be my refuge in the storm

Without you I am weak and broken

[Bridge]

Your kisses are like paradise

Your hugs can break the ice

Your glance melts my heart

Your everything makes me hot

[Pre-Chorus]

Oh, oh, oh, oh

(Be my anchor, be my refuge)

Yea-ah, yea-ah, yea-ah

[Chorus]

When the ocean rages, when the storm hits (when the storm hits)

You're my safe kingdom, my charming prince (my charming prince)

My hypnotic melody, my piercing symphony

Somethin' inside tells me you’re my destiny

If I beg for help and scream out your name (your name)

You rush into thick smoke and heavy rain (heavy rain)

With no doubts, with no fear of bleeding

Acting like a true hero you've always been

[Post-Chorus]

Oh, baby, be my anchor in the ocean

(My anchor in the ocean, oh-oh)

Oh, baby, be my refuge in the storm

(My refuge in the storm, whoa, whoa)

[Outro]

You are my anchor...

The main road to Kaohsiung Station.

“Tristanaz Laihnazrijaz” is my real full name in Or-Germanic shape. “T́ristanaz Ĺaihnazrijaz” and “Trístanaz Láihnazrijaz” are two of its variants. One of my main pen names is “Liŋk Twin Maniac”, which “Link Twin Maniac”, “LTM”, and “L™” are variants of. Another pen name of mine is “Twin Liŋk Maniac”, of which “Twin Link Maniac” ɂand “TLM” are variants. Before I switched to “Link Twin Maniac” and “Twin Link Maniac”, I used the pen name “Twin Maniac”. Before even that, in early fall of 2021, I briefly used “Twinceon”, a combination of “Twincest” with the suffix “-on”. Two others of my pseudonyms are “Eudimorphodon”, under which I published an encrypted philosophical Liŋktwincest story in the summer of 2021, and “Eudibamus” and “ChanceIsChange”, under which two names I took part in philosophical talks on forums. I am a ¾ German and ¼ Arabian man who in 2019 wrote his Maths B.Sc. thesis about Marcus, Spielman, and Srivastava’s proof of the Feichtinger Conjecture, which is now a theorem, of course.

I, Trístanaz Láihnazrijaz, the L™, am the one and only writer (i.e. author), owner, and copyright-holder of a UTF-8-encoded text whose SHA2-512 hash is

1D1FEC16762F9A3FE81C676F389D9E6EA85920CBCD8A865292CE1E035741A3F274496EAD4B21C3D36088822A1D298E86A5B12B651D16EF5A921C35A4EE05BD30

and whose SHA3-512 hash is

918DEABB7F76F9D97D329DABEF3A175BB4D314582C56216FA9BFB187411D5D5D908C7973588819E18EF2E95A29BEBB6255DB074AB7480A3E26DFE763756964F7.

By applying a very slight modification to that text, I got one with SHA2-512 hash

E5DE2D758A67801AD61485F749BD46F861DD67D987CC1EE55E284E3F6335968D8744B3F71E2D14E1F68D42FCE6051CBF2F53529FCC5063350788E0FFDAEEC9F8

and SHA3-512 hash

218B585FC3B504CCF4F151AEAF9EF7D8D2D48FCFF2AA40DED5D28FD808D21217650933B30D883785D53E48710B64E15351F6C36CA3FDA31FC0306C4A629FCB26.

I, Trístanaz Láihnazrijaz, the L™, am the sole author (i.e. maker and writer), owner, and copyright-holder of another UTF-8-encoded text, whose SHA2-512 hash is

DF3180E802CD6BA731D8AA498ED6172D9C0FD53D590055CE9F937777A8070D34C01930C9115A2450CCB71C613DDA340F2D53BABA39CC280E33552F9EDDDB1C3F

and whose SHA3-512 hash is

3B6184DF80DDAE1D395918D9EC79AB9DB988834B446AF6BDABB14A447D4D7B1270F640C733BFCF4F64DB0955D0ED156989443636771D0B8B242D3AC91BB76703.

By applying a very slight modification to that second text, I got one with SHA2-512 hash

C8749FDCD29EE20518DFA042DCC57593DA9C9A3F0A6299501AF23A66ADD69F6ADEB84968B71BCDA48719F4E74423DF1DB9F693EDEED489FD50CA2375AA9C648B

and SHA3-512 hash

3DCCF703E67F9546E83BCF93B26D1E8A35111EE9C70A91EAE1A51F50FF044729CC10A1547ADBC1264B380D8D04FF007B655DA6D3E5412E686526F59E200DA46E.

I hashed those two texts with the version 1.0.1.6. of the wonderful Notepad++ plugin NppCypt.

I woke up. I was in the back of a taxi, I didn't know how I'd gotten there but I knew there was something suspicious. I asked the taxi driver who he was and where he was taking but to my shock no response.

I checked the car screen the date read '8th December 2024'. I didn't know what was happening because last I remembered was a guy in all black. I looked in the car mirror. "Wh... what are you doing here you're supposed to be in jail! " I said in shock, as I realized it was my twin.

We were part of a royal family. I was expected to be the next heir, he was always jealous of this and tried to get rid of me in a variety of ways.

"I snuck out, escaped to be exact and I am here to take your life so mother and father have no choice but to give me the throne."

We arrived in a forest. It was the middle of the night. I was tied to tree, my brother walked of the car with knives in his hands and continued to throw them towards me as I'd I was a target. All of a sudden everything went black.

I didn't know how much time had passed but I woke up to the sound of beeping I was in the hospital. Father was there. "What happened?"

"Your brother in his jealousy to be the next heir tried to end your life but he was caught in the city lurking around, but you no longer have to worry as he has been put in a hight security prison so now all our worries can end."

"Father as much as you believe all our worries can end I know that he will find a way out and he will come for me. This is not the end."