Written by Allen Caldeira
Failing that, the cows mated in pastures and the saints all dropped acid, screens shattered around them, falling plastic and glass darted through the square, twinkled around the edges and the martyrs fell in with the prostitutes at cyber cafes where internet trolls and media warriors lived vagabond at all times. The streets began to warp into the rice paddies they once were, the teenagers with igirlfriends and sloppy, sexless lives, dragged themselves into the fields and made new love to new dirt. The monks chanted sutras from the temples before Tokyo rose up from the swamp of its past, recapitulated itself into the drying eyes of the martyrs awaiting their executions for their telling of a future unstrained by the past. Tokyo, born again from the ashes of itself. Tokyo, born again from the ideas hefted onto it by Carthusians and Andalusians. Tokyo, born again from how some thought it should be. And now the internet cafes cool down, whores roll in from opium dens, fat half-chefs spin takoyaki in the streets, and the saints sit with their backs to the city, slopping up ramen in a business cafe.