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After visually consuming delicacy after delicacy in the paper museum in Asakuyama Park I emerged into the middle of a group of kids roughly playing. One faked an eye injury, wailing in agony, then attacked when the others came over to see if he was OK. The late afternoon light illuminated the imaginary eyeball perfectly as it rolled on the ground, its stringy nerve and tissue collecting dirt and twigs. The wounded boy grabbed a piece of paper drifting by, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the gruesome socket to stanch the gushing of imaginary blood.