Through the train window the city unfolds like a story without chapters. The Yamanote Line, a perfect loop circling Tokyo, runs from dawn until after midnight—an endless rhythm carrying millions of footsteps through Shibuya, Shinjuku, Ikebukuro, Ueno. Every 59 minutes or so the journey completes itself, only to begin again, clockwise or counter-clockwise, outer circle or inner circle.

Somewhere between Ōsaki and Shinagawa, between the precise intervals of two and four minutes, time begins to dissolve. The city passes by in fragments—neon reflections on glass, the hum of conversations, the quiet presence of strangers who may never meet again. Trains move on the left, just like the cars, as if reminding you that even loops have their own direction.

It is less a commute than a daydream: a meditation on repetition, on lives intersecting for the briefest of moments, on the idea that a circle has no end—only the promise of return.

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