shinkansen from hamamatsu

the clock ticks unmercifully and i stand frozen before the mirror, noticing the wrinkles and the silver streaks in my hair. i am not immortal, as i once thought i myself to be. i am also not an artist- i am a shadow of an artist.

i put on my sunglasses for the train, hiding the circles under my eyes from this florescent light.
the cold circles around my neck, burning my ears in the morning. my walks to the station are not beautiful. there is no sanctuary here. everywhere i look, all i see is evasion.

there is a silver tint to the scene around me, as if the mountains were washed in misty blue watercolors, but there is no glory in this landscape. i rush past the sprawl on a man-made bullet, but i am uninspired by the scene around me even washed in silver and blue, i am unmoved by the pillars of industry and the streak of uninspired aesthetics.