A small room
in Shinmachi.

The studio began the way these things often do in Osaka: two desks, a shared kettle, and a rotating cast of rented models that dazzled for a week and disappointed by the month. Each new arrival meant relearning everything — its habits, its blind spots, its moods.

So we stopped rotating. We chose a single model, named the practice around it, and started keeping it the way a knife is kept: sharpened a little every morning, never lent to work it cannot do. The two hands came naturally — the room had always written software in the mornings and drawn in the afternoons. Kaku and Egaku are just those habits, formalised.

What this means for you is simple. The engine you use in December is the same one you used in March, only better at your kind of problem — because a person here noticed, corrected, and remembered.