The cool Japenese are surrounded by bags. On this train. They look futuristic. With Beatle haircuts.
Bags with names and logos. Expensive looking.
I am merely an observer here.
I scratch my nose.
I smell my finger.
It smells of butter.
It always has.
Eating ice creams and postcards home smell of vanilla.
They all have
electrical gadgets. It’s a stereotype, maybe, but they do. I can see then.
In their hands.
Its true. Circuits and conduits. Encased in plastic. On this train.
There is an edge
on the precipice of it all.
The cool Japanese from a neon land of busy cross roads, silver metallic architecture, silver and shining. Thinking on symbols.
And my thoughts were derailed when she embarked – the future men became background when she walked past – moving a paper and sitting down opposite me and