The Girl Living Inside My Head Is Japanese I Think

I don't go in for reasons, unlike the Japanese girl inside my head, Kiko, or whatever the hell her name is, Hapkido, or whatever the hell — she goes in for reasons, she tends to them with her precise fingers, tapping upon them, stroking them, stoking them. I have begun to feel like she is more the person I am than I am myself. She occupies my left side mostly, my creative side, my weird side. She is sweet. But a bit brooding. Her monologues are endless. Seriously endless things.