“I wonder if neon has memories,” she says as she jumps off the 35th floor of the Marunouchi Building. Falling through the night we close our eyes, the only sound the low drone of an eight-lane freeway about a mile away. “I never see any stars in Tokyo,” she questions. “Does that mean they don’t exist?” “Maybe,” I reply, absorbed by the reflection of the city in her eyes. Below us salarymen dot the warm pavement, a collection of uniformed ants in white shirts. We slowly arch our backs and glide through the streets, a steady descent. A couple sit arm-in-arm on a bench outside the Imperial Palace: its dark, metallic moat shining ominously in the moonlight. A homeless man sets up for the night, a thick stack of newspapers neatly tied together beside his bed. We fly through Ginza, past Shibuya, onwards towards the towering skyscrapers of Shinjuku. Landing on top of the Metropolitan Government Building we silently watch as Tokyo walks below. “I wonder how many of these people can fly?” she asks. “It’s hard to tell,” I reply. “How many do you think are willing to jump to find out?”