How much solitude can one find in a metropolis of 35 million?
How much silence can one bear in forgotten villages deserted by the young?
I was walking, looking, the echo of Murakami's novels asking me to see the invisible.
Is Japan an enigmatic dream, reality, or rather both at the same time, parallel universes that one can switch to and from?
Could I ever really understand and belong?
Probably not, not really, but the pull was powerful, and the alien oddly felt like a familiar home.