The bullet train is much faster than you expect it to be, vapour slicing through gravity. You drift off and miss Mount Fuji by a hair, according to a hunch and the map on your phone. When you get off the cherry blossoms are the same as you left them, atoms blooming into a portal you have already exited, relatively speaking. A single moment laps the invention of time. You throw out the door, climb out the window into a whole, pink void. You are obliterating softly.