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It’s always hotel time here. It’s always time to check in. I’m forever lugging a 50lb suitcase from Mark City past the KFC, the ACP, the Gusto, the Koban. The Japanz. “Do you drink beer” female uniform behind the desk wearing braces asks with her big braces smile. Well, yeah, I respond, so why are you giving me a can of Highball? Just for checking in? Is every transaction now the potential domain of some weird promo now? What if I pop open the can and drink it here and now, a brain full of jetlag, a nervous system high and low on 11 hours of Xanax? The sun hangs high outside over Shibuya, long slow fade out into not-quite-LED-lit darkness. Television shifting through medium shots of the human body in action, the smiling faces you won’t see in the city streets happy to see other people. Future TV where even the folks on commercials are talking and texting on portable devices: maybe their hands, maybe the air.