The way to the city had changed | Tiny particles of her memory clung to the bridge as she drove over it | He knew there would be no way back for him, and, to an extent, he was glad | The years passed | When he’d first arrived in Japan, just after the war | he found a five-year-old girl begging on the streets | Half a century later, after the Bubble | it was a seventy-year-old man he found begging | Inside her, she found a slice of jungle | the green very lush and beautiful, the insects | flamboyantly excessive | The founders imbued the streets with their spirit | Later, the carnival arrived | Many people were bored, though | She found ocean, there, too, and the chalky vectors of con-trails | on a clear August sky | How quiet the body is | Silent, eerie, like a balloon floating past in the background | And he wrote,

Nothing had changed, except everything



from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)