53

In Tokyo we are now into the somber business of fall. Tonight in New York you are wearing masks and dressed as ghosts and rotting zombies. I can’t imagine the International Date Line that separates us. On a map it is sharp, like the folds of a well-made paper airplane. I try to see it cut through the water, yet it blends into the surroundings and submerges deep into an undersea world populated by glowing creatures with fangs, visibly pulsing innards, and fantastically ugly faces.

41

After an exceptionally violent mid-air catastrophe the paper airplane completes its sudden plunge towards the earth on the top of a dark green bush, the cockpit buried in the foliage. The bodies of the pilot and flight crew are indistinguishable from one another, just unimaginable human configurations and red mist hanging in the air. Nearby a dog’s ears – the same shape as the former nose cone – are attentively listening for the sounds of any passengers that survived the rapid decompression and subsequent impact. There is nothing. Only stillness, save the dog's own panting and its concerns for the victim’s families whirling around in its dog brain. The gurgling of the Shakujii gawa slowly fades back in as soundtrack for the torsos still safely strapped to seats. Beheadings are always such tragedies. Woof.