Sans soleil

He told me about the January light on the station stairways.
He told me that this city ought to be deciphered
like a musical score;

one could get lost in the great orchestral masses
and the accumulation of details.

And that created the cheapest image of Tokyo:
overcrowded, megalomaniac, inhuman.

He thought he saw more subtle cycles there:
rhythms, clusters of faces caught sight of in passing

—as different and precise as groups of instruments.
Sometimes the musical comparison coincided with plain reality;
the Sony stairway in the Ginza was itself an instrument,
each step a note.

All of it fit together like the voices
of a somewhat complicated fugue,

but it was enough to take hold of one of them
and hang on to it.

The television screens for example;
all by themselves they created an itinerary
that sometimes wound up in unexpected curves.

It was sumo season, and the fans who came to watch the fights
in the very chic showrooms on the Ginza

were "justement" the poorest of the Tokyo poors.
So poor that they didn't even have a TV set.
He saw them come, the dead souls of Namida-bashi
he had drunk saké with one sunny dawn

—how many seasons ago was that now?