She’s standing on the corner in the labyrinth of Tokyo, bathed in red light. Is she waiting for someone? Yes. But she’s not waiting for you.
Where. Where are you. Somewhere. Online, offline. Lost in scrolling a feed with no end in site. On a train. Outside, inside. Inside an interior: the office, your office. And in the back corner: your desk. Made of wood, Japanese wood. And a novel on your desk, with a small glass elephant next to it. Ornaments. Things that make that desk yours. Embedded with your essence. And even your seat knows the contours of your buttocks. You. At the bar after work listening to jazz and contemplating what it feels like to live and die in Tokyo. Imagine: a city that expands like the universe; as soon as you think you reach the end you’ve only gotten to the middle of a new neighborhood in a new ward. 35 million. So many people. Too many, too much. Too much traffic. Too much transit. Too much noise. Too much pollution. Too many computers. You work only for a two-week vacation, somewhere, maybe up north: Sapporo, nice and cold. Or down south: Okinawa, the nation’s “Hawaii.” Or maybe the real Hawaii itself, where the cool kids hang ten. But for now, the bar and another drink. Another record on. A gaze into the abyss of Tumblr, the code scratching your corneas.
The bar. You leave at midnight, strapped up in your coat and your boots, smoking an e-cig. She’s there. You pass her: no one else walks on the street. For a second a dream hovers between you both, between the attempt at eye contact or a fake hello. Nothing. Keep moving, don’t be a pervert. But when you look back at her — not to check out her ass, just to see if she’s moving — she’s gone.
More about: 2047
