Post bubble. Post place. Post internet. Post truth. It doesn’t really bother us, not here. Not now. Not here between your one thousand different greys each tone more perfect than the last. Since we were young you looked after me. I watched your hands on the wheel as neon lights danced across the windshield. We’d go for long periods without taking at all. What a difference distance makes. Now all I remember is the golden sun coming up through the red arches. Macro-impressionism. Whenever I feel alone I’d watch that crazy live television our parents loved, something about it being okay on their end made it okay on mine. They say that here, if you do anything with honour and tradition you’ll be alright. I don’t think I understand either. That was always the space between us. Sometimes I long for a place of our own amongst the million faces but maybe we’ll always be alone in Kyoto.