The Same
in Japanese
Part 3
At night, I dream about
him, the samurai. I was walking in an empty place by
the sea, and I saw him sitting in his chair, fishing. I
asked him (in Japanese?) how to get to the train
station and he told me, "The trains don’t run
anymore. You have to walk. Down there, turn left and
cross over the bridge." I knew he couldn't get up, so I
walked on through the city by myself. There were no
people. The streets were full of garbage, but there
were no crows and no cars. I wanted to buy some
candies, but no shops were open.
I went to my apartment. All my things were old and
broken. It was full of garbage and it smelled, but I
didn't care. It didn't matter.
I took the elevator
down and got off on the ground floor, a wide-open
space with a line of ticket machines along one
wall. At the end was the entrance to the train
platform. There was still nobody around. I walked,
my shoes clicking on the hard floor. I walked and
walked, but no train came. Instead of a train,
water ran down the tracks. I followed it, walking,
my shoes clicking.
As I came near the end of the platform, I could see a
beautiful park outside. I stepped off the platform onto
the grass. There were trees, flowers and birds, and
cute little buildings made of cardboard boxes: new
boxes, clean boxes. The air smelled fresh. I walked
through the garden and found him sitting in the middle
on his chair. "You may sleep here tonight." He said,
"but first let's eat."
Somehow, I knew I had to ask him, "What’s this
for?" but I didn't ask. I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I looked back towards the station and saw all
the other homeless people. They stood on the platform,
waiting for a train, and I knew their houses were gone:
their Panasonic TV boxes, their bookcases, their
books—gone. The police were there, watching,
stopping people. I turned back to the park, but it was
full of office workers. Young, beautiful, clean office
workers. Was the park for them? What’s it all
for?
A bell. The train...
