You know me. Maybe not all of you do, but I can guarantee that all of you know of others like me. I've got a lot of family and we've been around for'�let's see here'�well, pretty much forever, although you've never seen us and never will. While you stumbled, mouth agog through the streets of Mumbai, crossed the foot bridges over ancient canals in Venice, held your nose next to bubbling mud pools in Rotorua, that was us, contributing tirelessly to your experiences and the memories you've since retained. All of you seem to think that we're just one big homogenous mass; labelling us the very singular 'air'�, confident that such a name aptly described us. As if simply saying 'humans'� would be enough to explain all of you. My family varies from place to place, different in the methods by which we greet you, yet similar in the respect that none of you could survive more than a mere matter of minutes without us. I would love to introduce you to us all, it would certainly be my pleasure to do as much, but unfortunately I do not have the time for such things. Me? Well, I've been in Tokyo all my life, of course. I've carried the unmistakeable flavour of horses, thatched roofs and tea; I've swirled through the ruins of the Great Kanto Earthquake and been tainted by the fires of a nation at war. I move fast, I shift through the spirits and energies of many things in an effort to leave an imprint on your lungs and mind before you have even reached the end of the block. In this city you are in a hurry too. I know this because I come and go in rapid succession from you, day and night. Without me, this metropolis would cease to exist. Welcome to my Tokyo. Please breathe me gently and comfortably.

Let's go then; follow me down into this neighbourhood. It is called Meidaimae and the time is 6:12pm on a Tuesday in April. Once you pass through the intersection, I will cover this particular portion of the neighbourhood in grilled fish. Is it coming from that home or that one? Maybe it's that one over there? It's monstrous, isn't it? Sticky and overwhelming. It's being grilled whole, skin and bones still intact. Several of them at once. A very familiar greeting that lingers everywhere at all times. I know this because I've coated it on coins and hand holds on trains. You know this because often you've scratched at an itch on your nose or cheek only to discover that I've painted your hands with it, this very same grilling fish you pass by on a warm April evening in Meidaimae.

Stay with me now, I'm losing interest in this fish. Do you see that home straight ahead ' or rather, what remains of a home? Yes, that's right, the one that's being knocked down. I will hand these things to you one at a time. First and foremost there is the wood, splintered as it is, damp and aged, a mossy coolness to it, don't you think? And now take some of this ' the fresh earth that has been dug loose by machines run on the gruff bite of diesel ' but don't focus on the diesel too long. I'm giving this to you because it's the closest escape you can have while living in this place. This lot, like all other tiny lots currently undergoing the exact same process across the city, is being prepared for its descendant. These are those rare opportunities where I can do my best to simulate a forest or nature for you. Soil and wood, water and moss ' natural elements amidst an urban maze of concrete and neon.

Up ahead there, that's the train station. By the way, do you like cigarettes? No matter really. I know that you don't see anyone smoking, but there are thirty-three million people in this city and someone is always smoking. I myself have become somewhat addicted to it over the years and every so often I feel it necessary to corral a great deal of those dense, congested clouds from corporate coffee shops, izakayas and restaurants as well as those designated smoking areas on the streets, and spread it about the entire city for all to enjoy or hate.

Ahh, here we are: the train station. These platforms are where I do some of my most arduous work. There are many things to deal with, not for any sort of vain personal gain, mind you, but to provide a glimpse of a vital process, key to keeping this metropolis functioning in a timely matter. That acrid flavour, the one you currently cannot avoid and compare to batteries and burning rubber? Greasy gears, oil and tar? Well yes, I'll admit that it is not a very pleasant experience, but that makes it no less important. Remember this because it provides an indispensable lesson - I want you to recognize that without the presence of these things that you frown and crinkle your nose over, Tokyo would be crippled. For this reason, when the train pulls into the station, I always make one final attempt at sending an amalgamation of the tracks and train and gears your way with a great deal of force. I hope you understand.

Like you, aboard the train I become bored and claustrophobic. Unlike you, I am recycled repeatedly, stifled in every attempt I make at stretching out and taking hold of new surroundings. Here I can understand why you may resent me. Cramped as you are, cramped as I am, I can't help but absorb every last ounce of breath this indefatigable army of black suited salary men presents and pass it on to you. I'm sorry, but its heavy warmth leaves me sluggish, defenceless. I unfurl through your nostrils, traces of cigarettes, edamame, pork, beef ' the flesh of too many creatures deep fried or raw - tagging along. The ghosts of litres of Asahi or sake or shouchu that washed it all down. It is sour and foul and reminds you of the time you left rice in your rice cooker for a week and then remembered it only when you went to make more. In your tiny apartment I came at you full bore and without warning, but there at least, you had the window to open. On the train you are walled in, wedged firmly in place with no room to raise as much as a finger in protest. You did not want me there back then just as you do not want me here now. But you know that's not an option. You know you have no choice in the matter. There is, however, a reprieve when the train makes a stop; its doors rattle open and I lunge free just long enough to reel in the honeyed, flowery champagne of the perfume of the girl on the platform who is busy texting on her mobile. She does not board the train because she is waiting for the express and when the doors close again, all ties are severed. Briefly enlivened, I become sedate, quickly adopting the same putridity as before.

And then we are free. In Shibuya I'll follow you through the station. I'm sorry for the train, I really am, but it's not like I was having any fun either. Still, I have something for you. No, it's not the mishmash of perfumes currently burning your throat with their potency. They snag on my sleeves and follow me, begging to be noticed. It is a bit much, isn't it? Well, just be glad we're not still on that train. If you're patient I'll be able to present you with a treat. One moment, one moment, just a little further'�and'�there. Like a cave padded in warm cotton candy that you crawled into, belly full and content. Sugar sweet dreams in a spotless world made of pastry. Fabulous, isn't it? Do you know what they are? Fresh cream puffs. Boxed and sold just up ahead. I personally love them. I'd carry them as far as they ever wanted to go and look ' don't you notice how your own attitude has already changed? Just like everyone else who walks near here ' take a look around, that's what you look like too ' head up, a little bit of a dreamy look to your face. You've taken this instant to forget about everything else, haven't you? Of course you have. Of course they have, though none of you will ever admit it. I know the truth. They're just as much of an irresistible distraction to me as they are to all of you.

But we really should keep going; I have so many things to introduce you to and we're running out of time. This exit here, down the escalator, that's it. This is a very old friend of mine. I've been carrying him every winter and spring since long before you or even your parents were around. Sure, you're familiar with the tiny truck, the crackling loudspeaker anthem: Yakimooooo! Yakimo. Yakimooooo! Yakimo. The baked sweet potatoes themselves don't have much to offer, but the flames and wood do. That's where the familiarity and comfort come from. When this infuses itself into me and I blow it gently into your face, there are memories of camping or ski lodges after a long day on the slopes, Christmas with your family and friends. Such immediate, pleasant simplicity in one of the most complex places on earth.

All right, that's enough of that. Let's head down the sidewalk here toward the crossing. Don't mind me, I'm just going to wrap myself around your head and sit on your face for a bit. It's rude and foul, yes, I know. Unfortunately this is just one of those areas of the city that stains me so deeply that I can't help resting on you. One gigantically foul cocktail: sulphuric mayonnaise slathered haphazardly on a month old egg sandwich, its crusts soaked in garbage juice, then thrown into a blender and pureed, the entire contents poured carefully all over me until I am drowning in it, utterly drenched. It's far too heavy for me to carry alone. Oh stop it with the faces, already. Hold your breath if it bothers you so much ' I'm, the one that's really suffering here. Don't be so damned selfish. You've had the yakimo truck and the cream puffs in the station ' didn't I give you the cream puffs? Fair is fair. I don't know what you expect from Shibuya, of all places. This is the busiest crossing in the entire world, there's people everywhere. I assure you I did everything I could throughout the years to resist the inevitable side effects, but the bottom line is that I'm not as strong as I used to be. You change, the city changes, we all change. My job, aside from keeping you alive is to make you aware of your surroundings. That means the good as well as the bad. I wear all of it like a jacket. This is my city and I offer it to you every single day, for better or worse, it's Tokyo.

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