I get into a Toyota Corolla parked in an American suburban household’s garage.
Hachiko Crossing is shed from a single hair follicle.
I’m in the middle of the desert driving along wide, SUV-sprinkled roads.
The Yamanote Line gets swallowed with my saliva.
I swing by a drive-thru fast food establishment.
A shokunin sushi master slips out of my pocket.
I stroll through mega-aisles at mega-warehouses lined with Korean appliances.
A Togoshi Ginza gift shop flakes off like dry skin.
I flip on a TV set: another home invasion and a murder.
A Meguro River sakura petal detaches from a tree branch and shrivels.
I jog on a treadmill on carpeted floors.
A Shibuya studio-trained house dancer is pushed out of my sweat glands.
I buy avocados imported from Mexico and shrimp imported from Thailand.
A Fukushima-radiated tomato rolls out of my bag and splats on the floor.
I take a shower.
And a steaming hot furo flies off like a broken fingernail.
I dress myself in muted tones and Uggs.
And a Harajuku girl comes out with my menstrual flow.
The Japanostalgia eats me up.
An obi, yakitori skewer, salaryman, OL, otaku, Osaki station jingle, ubervending machine, Franco-Japanese bakery, manga, soba noodle, and izakaya run down my cheeks as tears.
I’m interned in the hospital.
Chuken Hachiko dutifully awaits me at Shibuya Station.