: cosmetic necessities at Seiyu. Boys in baggy, velour sweatpants and heavy thick wallets banging against the back of their knees. Kendo satchels. Puffy black jackets, spiky hair. The line between youthful salaryman and old salaryman is so severe. Like, one weekend they cocoon hip and thin, then emerge on Monday aged and pouched in the same suit, the same trenchcoat, the same black shoes? Sapporo: Neko Case on the bus and strolling through Aurora Town and Pole Town. I mouth the words unconcerned to who might be watching. Habana for the last Cuban Film Fesitval meeting, the recap. We watch the DVD made and, after the drinks and during wine, it’s announced that S-san will lead the pack again next year. Fair Trade Festival in June. A cab to the station. The last train home is crammed with people; frail girls with shopping bags (Dean & Deluca), salarymen playing Final Fantasy on their cellphones. It smells of cough medicine or mouthwash or gum masking alcohol and digested chicken. I grip an upper corner with my web-like hand in the limbo room between cars. A boy in shades, lines razored in his hair, a ruby-red cellphone, talks loudly as he pushes his way through the thick and into the restroom. The train jerks forward and people are tossed into each other. These girls smashed against drunk and wobbling men.
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