Early March in Tokyo. Spring beckons. Shop windows display softer hues and lighter wares. Sitting still for a moment on a park bench. Wind blows, birds twitter, leaves rustle, traffic swirls, glides , scrapes, travels, presses into the narrow stream. Giant concrete rectangles, perforated with glazed eyes, silent, anonymous. Bright plum blossoms. Salary man, a silhouette beneath the tree between the office blocks, reads the paper and sips his beer. I read from a biography of Galileo. I'm in Padua, Firenze, Roma, Pisa. Where is the centre of the universe? Patrick flies west overhead home to Belgium. He sits in Economy class writing in his journal, reliving our frantic ten day journey across west Japan, compares the Shinkansen with empty train stations in the countryside serenaded by electronic jingles, single car locals full of happy
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