There’s a small, white street cart lined with candles and Baccarat crystal glasses that mysteriously appears at midnight on the streets of Tokyo.
It would not seem out of place in a Haruki Murakami novel — fleeting and, just like its warm candlelight, seeming to flicker in that borderline space between fantasy and reality.
On this particular evening, it is parked just off a major north-south road cutting through the city. Three individuals — an older lady and two younger men — are drinking and chatting around the bar. Behind it, a man in a dark fur coat and gray knit sweater is slowly smoking a cigar, constantly twirling it in his fingers.
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