本宿、本宿です。 (Motojuku, this is Motojuku.)
Standing obediently behind the kiroi sen, waiting for the futsu densha. The shinkansen rushes by violently, the daigakusei immersed in their keitai taking no notice to their fluttering strait hair. Exhausted men staggering in from the post-work nomikai and a teenage couple holding hands on the way home from a late night of bukatsu. Kaze. Kiroi sen, yellow safety line. Even the automated intercom voice warning riders to stand behind the line sounds tired, as she lists off the next few stops. Futsu densha, the local train, which is the slowest, but the only one that will stop near our obscure apartment by the river. Shinkansen, the bullet train that yells at 200 miles per hour, travelling from the frigid top to the beachy bottom of this California-sized island. Daigakusei, college students. Thoughts of breaking the mold swimming around in their thoughts, but conforming to the norm on keitai, their cell phones. Nomikai, men drinking together with the coworkers they have already spent 12...