Standing in the center of the hustle and bustle, a fly on the wall in the shift and shuffle.

Grown man, blue raincoat. Running like a chicken with its head cut off. Swerving in-and-out of the rush hour crowds while screaming at the top of his lungs.

Staring at the tottering drunk spitting out his breakfast as passersby pass blindly by…until a woman with headphones, who takes them off, slows down and gives him a packet of tissues.

And he, for a moment surprised to his senses, able to thank her small act of kindness (but she’s already long lost gone).

Faces good bye, a wink of an eye. Waves after waves of unheard soundtracks.

We’re all moving so fast, without real direction; our paths influenced by complete strangers.

I need this space to relax.

Nine o’clock’s approaching and the mad dash is on.

I’m at Joinus, on the corner between the Sotetsu-sen and Yokohama Blue Line, watching the morning, the day, this so-called life unfold…

…The old retirees in front of Daiwa Securities anxious for the share price boards to begin predicting their futures; the blatantly smoking in front of no smoking signs; the Red Cross bus pulling in and setting up shop; passersby talking too loud at their mobiles or else with their stares glued to their screens, others with their heads buried in manga.

Counting how many people enter a nearby kōban (always to ask for help, always directions). Counting how many people stop by kiosks to pick up breakfast or lunch. Counting the number of beelines to work, faces blank, expressions lost…Counting the number of occupations walking past, identifying them by their uniforms and dress: salarymen, delivery men, school girls, OL’s, hairstylists, grocers, florists, yobikomi, shinnyū-shain, pachinko parlour staff, food service clerks, department store employees – and the list forever never ends…

Watching city workers in matching creme-coloured baseball caps and pine green shirts stooped over, pecking about like pigeons with tongs, picking up cigarette butts and trash. Wondering how long after they stop the streets will take to become littered again.

So many different lives preoccupied with as many singular worlds, the city’s everyday morning rush metastability. It’d take a natural disaster to make them stop, take notice, see there’s others besides themselves with places to go, things to do, people to see.

The old versus young, the local versus lost. The already drunk or otherwise drinking. Couples spending time together, the homeless and alone. Students skipping school, workers enjoying the day off. The things people do when nobody’s looking, and the things people do pretending others are. Everyone getting in someone else’s way while going about their own.

Leaning against a wall, watching it all unfold – feels like I’m on some surreal holiday, or in exile, and the world’s slowed down to prove it. Everything moving at half-speed, in stop-motion, so I don’t miss the bigger picture; bringing me closer to my calculations’ terrible secret, a most terrifying truth.

Anticipating Mr. Wednesday Morningenuous’ return to his, at least, weekly routine:

· Board at Ofuna Station
· Stand right shoulder to door, pause, right hand brush off left arm (twice)
· Wipe clean bright white looks-new-but-aren’t-anymore Adidas shoes (twice each shoe)
· Reposition; right hand into right trouser pocket, remove mobile (clear plastic twist-coil strapped to belt)
· Ride nose-to-mobile screen (despite onslaught of boarding passengers at Totsuka and Higashi-Totsuka Stations)
· Exit Yokohama Station. Pocket mobile and head left towards East Exit

I wonder who he is, Mr. Wednesday Morningenuous. A taller-than-average, average build, average looking Japanese male. Early-forties. Wears glasses, and fond of wearing chinos, although he’s sported beige corduroy trousers since November of last year. Never wears a suit, so not a salaryman, unless Wednesday’s are his day off. What does he do for a living? What brings him out at six in the morning? Or who? He doesn’t wear a wedding band; a girlfriend perhaps? Maybe someone else’s wife?

Does he know that I’ve been observing him for months, ever since I first noticed him? Has he ever noticed me? Does he know that I wait for him each week? If he did, would he care? If he does, does he try not to? Or does he pretend not to notice because he’s terrified by my curious stare?

This time I discovered two new repeat commuters with routines interesting enough to warrant a search for next week.

Until the next…