Who is in and who is out

I leave, from Tokyo, with this vision in my eyes, fixed just before the skyscraper next door emptied, at six o'clock and a few minutes.

I leave that something I understood, although.

Tokyo is a hundred and one curtains that open and you go through them as they go up, in sequence, and disappear as they go up inside the ceiling, but there is another one after that, of curtains, that uncovers another one, and, so, you always end up amazed at what appears after the next curtain.

We stood in a café, recovering from the stifling heat of the day that started early. Tokyo in the summer is humid and hot. Then, in the evening at this time of the year, things return to some kind of norm, it may be that, after all, it is a seaside city, even if you can't feel it. We were staying in a café in Shinjuku.

That, to me, Murakami Haruki, this effect he has: I start a book, casually, but then, give him time three chapters, and I start having strange dreams, falling asleep with the knowledge that the book will come to visit me at night. I know that Murakami's Tokyo doesn't exist: it's all a dream, described with a care to make it real, it's always hard work re-writing.

As I was reading, though, I was thinking that I would like to set foot, in that city, and look at the buildings as the protagonist looks at them. Even though I know they're not the same buildings. And to sit for half an hour in a café in Shinjuku, even though I know it's not that café.

Then we got up, we had already paid, we went out, and we walked to Shinjuku Station: we were in a river of people, like a flock of flocks, on the sidewalks. We walked around them, around the station, and then we took the stairs, the stairs at exit number 3, and we went down and dived, got swept along by the current.

We disappeared on one of the many floors, of the station, where the story takes place.