At midnight Tokyo can feel like a dream. A silent suburbia awaiting the onset of sleep. Vending machines hum and glow, pulsating, while cats peer down from above. Mass tangles of electrical cables silhouette against the moon. By 1am most of the shutters in my neighbourhood have closed. Yet one store is always open. It sells toys. Old toys. Spin tops and paddle balls, wind-up cars and forgotten plastic treasures. Inside, the Curator sits content: a pupa encased in a cocoon of cardboard boxes and old-time music floating from a record player. While Tokyo sleeps he is watching over us all.