-Pilgrimage-

The shoe, it sits awkwardly. Slightly crooked, disfigured, jutting out at the wrong angle. Puzzling because out of context it seems to have no meaning. It exists and then it doesn't. Nothing could be contrived or interpreted. It reclines on the rail, lit from one side by a waning sun. On the other side, a long shadow stretches out, bouncing and skittering over rough rocks and sod, up and over the metal brim of the tracks. Like some photographer's morbid composition for a series of monochromatics. It's the unmistakable shape and colour of a black dress shoe. Oxford, tightly laced. Polished to perfection. But one end is crumpled, tousled by dirt and squashed flat at the toe. Inside its gaping hole, is a once-white sock. Half of it hangs limp and deflated as though it's a balloon that had lost its air. Now stained with deep crimson. It has been drying into dark ink and caking into crumbs. I stare and feel nothing. Shizuka turns away.

A few of the passengers glance over, wondering what we were looking at. It's against Etiquette however, so they slink back to their hiding places, hugging the weathered walls. But they're watching.

I put an arm around her clumsily and pull her against me. Our puffy jackets wrestle each other. It's the right thing to do. She stiffens but I feel her exhale and settle against my shoulder like a grieving widow. But we are only lovers huddling against the cold.

She tells me she's fine again. I hold her firmly, like the date I should be. My hand feels out of place on her shoulder. She is warm. But she shudders.

"You don't look fine."

"I've seen enough you know, this is nothing."

"Have you seen corpses?"

"No, not really. I spent most of my life outside of school in hiding, only going for daily necessities, like groceries. I've only seen dead corpses through visualization. You're lucky you have lost most of your emotional capacity."

I look at the shoe and its severed foot again. "It is one of Them isn't it."

"The shoe seems uncanny certainly, but I can't be sure. I heard his final thoughts. One of Them shouldn't be thinking at all."

"What did he say?"

"Fuck you; he said 'fuck you'. Before that, he said 'I know the truth. I can't do this anymore'. I'm not sure what that means. He died too quickly; the train was moving too fast, so I could only catch a glimpse of his thoughts when we arrived. I'm not sure if it was conscious or subconscious."

"Does this have anything to do with us?"

"Too early to tell. If it is a coincidence, it is a big coincidence."

"Does anyone else here know who it was?"

"The clean-up crew is trying not to think, like you, or they might lose their composure and control. They must maintain their detachment and professionalism. Quite a formidable kind of people really, to be in this kind of business." She tilts her head a little as if to tune into a different signal. Her hair bleeds over her forehead. "The police are analyzing the remains, body parts are all separated and mutilated from the impact. The windshield of the train is splintered. Some are thinking of their kid or wife and about what to eat tonight. That it's another inconvenient day at work. Wouldn't it be better if nothing ever happened? They believe that's the best kind of day, everyday in monotony. All of them have unanimously decided it is suicide, though they haven't acquired the proper evidence yet. It's funny because as soon as someone has made up their mind, nothing else could easily deter the result. Every evidence they find will point towards the conclusion they've already reached, even if it's contradictory."

"It would be quite unfair if the police had an espre in their ranks. Or on the other hand, a criminal organization."

"Oh, there are likely many, in various organizations throughout the nation. Throughout the world. Albeit well-trained, well-conditioned and well-disciplined espres. Their job is to observe and record. Though they must perform the duties or responsibilities of their assigned positions, they will do nothing outside of their restrictions or jurisdictions."

"And no one rebelled?"

"Maybe, maybe not. And that's why there is a clean-up crew after me."

I watch as a man in a white suit, respirator, gloves and all, stoops, crinkling like a plastic bag, to scoop up the shoe and the foot inside. It looks like he's simply lifting a toy a child had left behind. It's placed into a container with a biohazardous symbol. The shoe is gone. It will be passed off to the coroner, an item in an assembly line.

"Let's get another coffee," I say.

Canned coffee - BOSS, Itoen, Kirin, Nescafé and various brands - all taste the same to me. Bland, stale, diluted, sugar. As if we're drinking sweetened paint or something. The companies try their best, introducing new technologies and processes, different series and flavors, even collectibles, graphic packaging, pop culture and images of idols. Some will contend that they do enjoy the taste of canned coffee. But who would really say so, if one has the financial ability and time to drink a steaming cup from a high end cafe in a clean, friendly, well-lit suburb? Canned coffee is always only a replacement, a substitute of a better, greater, more dignified and refined alternative. It's a quick relief, a quick solution to sudden cravings, or a method to attain something else: warmth in the winter, a topic for conversation, means of approaching a pretty girl, perhaps an ounce of self-confidence in having something to do in a long wait - a sort of stylish natural defense mechanism.

Someone who prefers canned coffee might only be fooling themselves. We're all looking for something to pass the time.

It's when we finish our second can of hot coffee that the staff starts to clear out. There had been at least an hour delay. A ripple through the system, likely affecting thousands of people. The announcements in the stations have repeated themselves dozens of times. But no one complains. It's suicide after all. No one dares to complain out loud about suicide. "They complain in their heads," she says.

The crowd boards a new train - a luminous, bright, sterile train - without a word. There are no black suits, black sunglasses, or severed black Oxford dress shoes, just a packed train. We're in the middle, not near the doors, standing in between a high school student and an old man with a young woman. The high school student is in uniform, and the hefty weight of his bag is obvious on his shoulders. Between his feet sits a large paper bag, the kind from shopping at big brand name department stores, but its contents are unseen. The old man is in a flight jacket carrying a newspaper, rolled up into a rod. I can't make out the headlines or the date. He doesn't look at his companion, who is supporting his arm. The woman has a nice face, smooth white skin, lightly coloured lips, well trimmed-short hair, not beautiful but balanced and pleasant to look at. She is constantly watching the man. Like she is afraid he might fall over suddenly. I am uncertain if she is his daughter, grand-daughter, co-worker, nurse or wife.

Shizuka bumps against my side every now and then. With the exception of fleeting glimpses of the outside world, it feels like we are static, idle, going nowhere, not forward or back, just listening to the rumbling train tracks and electric hum, enjoying good vibrations through the floor.

The top of Cosmo Clock 21 begins to seem like the peak of Mt. Fuji. A pilgrimage to the Holy City. To ring the Lover's Bell at the cliff-side of Enoshima. Like a ritual journey to Canterbury Shrine. A sort of fantasy, highly glorified and elevated beyond its intended meaning, where the process becomes sublime and somehow spiritual itself. For a moment, the sense of awe, and the next, no lasting impression.

It was the world's tallest ferris wheel, built for the Yokohama Expo in 1989, until subsequent ferris wheels began to overtake the title, beyond 1997, like some sort of arms race. But to this day, it is still the world's largest clock. It continues to epitomize time with its great digital display. Yet, time is more than a fourth dimension; it's the human experience of time that gives meaning. We strive to ride on the ferris wheel to the top, over a course of fifteen minutes, where something may or may not happen. But we will become time itself.

We pass high over the Tama River, with sprawling flat shores of emerald grass on both sides, and distant sprouts of tall buildings. These line a mighty width of water. The water will flow on for more than a hundred kilometers dividing Tokyo and Kanagawa. Normally, the border of two prefectures is unnoticeable, an invisible line between quarrelling flatmates. Invading passengers aboard public transit will trespass daily without giving it a thought, products shipped back and forth, but today it's different. I feel a throbbing pain in my temple as we exit Tokyo and enter Kanagawa. At first I'm not concerned with it - I figure it must be the heat or the sound of the train tracks - but when I look again, the flicker has returned.

Black suits. An entire train full of them. An electric jolt possesses my body, just as it had when Ahn Mi Hyun was metamorphosed. All, but Shizuka and I, become one and the same as if someone had reached in and shut off the lights, dousing the room in darkness. Like the passengers in unison, at a public demonstration or a college sports game, had donned uniforms in synchrony, composing a human mural. And just like it had a month ago, colour returns, before I could decide whether it had been actuality or phantasmagoria. Of course, that's likely the point. Shizuka had saw it happen no doubt, but she says nothing. Nothing happened. Outside, the sky siphons pigments from the grass fields.

I sift through each face visible in my mind, taking note of wrinkles, nose shapes, lip thickness, cheekbones, as if they might distort at any instant again. But the answer isn't in their eyes or faces. It lies at their feet. It takes me a while but I notice the student isn't the only one with a large paper bag. There are several others, some hidden between knees and winter boots, some cradled on laps. Aside from paper shopping bags, many carry rather oversized luggage: sports bags, backpacks, duffel bags, suitcases. Various colours, materials and sizes. Expensive brand names, an enormous Adidas symbol plastered on its side, or the mathematical interlocking Gs for Gucci. Others roughly textured, worn and cheap straight out of bargain-stores. Nothing too large, but not quite regular every day shoulder slings. It's as though they're all on the same trip. Nowhere far and not for long, but a trip, nonetheless. They don't seem to hold anything bulky or solid. Most look malleable, unhealthily flaccid, warped in the midsection, like sagging skin. There aren't that many, but just enough to wonder what's inside.

"We will find out," she says.

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