Nature entangled in concrete. Opaque skies. Silence. Every Thursday I make the trip to Saitama to hang out with the crows and the lonely vending machine who hasn’t been touched in years. He’s OK though. Content in stillness. The clouds above are grey, the roads below the same. A rusty beer tin hides in the verge, watching the people who pass him by day, after day, after day. No one notices him. The train station is unmanned, the bus stop offering refuge at 8am and 6pm. If you want a ride during that ten-hour gap, well, that’s asking a bit too much. I walk past rice fields and silhouettes, mountains and electrical wiring. Music for Airports in my ears, pebbles crunching beneath my feet. This is probably the closest to Japan I’ll ever get.