Window All my Tokyos feel imaginary. Once, in a cab, whipping along that elevated Tarkovsky expressway, I saw, through an uncurtained window, a man seated naked on the edge of a dark wooden table. Helmut Newton but for real somehow. Of no particular age, with corporate hair. Awaiting something I could not, would never, see, beyond the frame of mullion and concrete. And since then I have tried to fill an infinite depth, of moment, of field, with details I am unwilling to trust. That he was Japanese. Or not. That the table was mahogany, one end of a long dining or perhaps conference table, highly...