Just a little plant; though actually, more like a little baby tree. Just a little treasure to add some literal life to my apartment.

Carrying it home on the train, sandwiched between a hundred black-suited salary-men, "I just can't seem to shake this feeeeeling," echoed in the little space between my ears; a bright and sunny melody suitable for the end of what had been a bright and beautiful day.

Despite the scowls on the faces of these sleepy men, "I just can't seem to shake this feeling." I was dancing, off in my own world, dancing for only myself, a smile spread across my face, thinking of the ones I loved--their faces dancing, too.

And then silence.

Pausing that kind of thing on a crowded train--that kind of movement, that kind of smiling, gleaming, forget-your-worries and just love kind of thing--and realizing you are truly enveloped in silence is more than spooky, it's a hollow and empty nothingness, ringing in your ears.

And then un-pause, dancing yet again.

"I can't seem to shake this feee-ee-eeling...!"

Then pause again.

A cold and dead train car, yet full of so many breathing bodies, sucking in the crisp night air, turning the train into a sort of lukewarm sauna on wheels.

Un-pause.

"I can't seem to shake this feeeeeling!!"

What feeling, exactly?

Pause again, to think.

I pulled a plastic bottle from my bag and sipped what apparently is the number one sports drink in Tokyo--that is of course, if you trust the judgment of "Ranking Rankqueen," a little bodega buried beneath Shinjuku station that offers all of its products by category, be it soft drink or ball point pen, ranking them from one on down to five.

I, of course, can afford only the best of tastes, so I purchased their top pick, which, I can only assume was selected by a staff who adheres to a stringent voting procedure; scrutinizing every detail of the product. Their conclusion? This week, the best sports drink in Tokyo is none other than Pocari Sweat.

Hmm, Pocari Sweat.

So that's what that unshakeable feeling was.

Sweat.

The kind that runs down your back, drips off your ass and then down your leg to the floor because you are wearing a coat, slammed into a train like a sardine, with a few hundred of Tokyo's most exhausted employees for a 40 minute ride home--and your hands are stuck too, so you can't even be bothered to wipe the sweat.

Drip, drip.

Un-pause.

"I can't seem to shake this fee-eeeeeling....!"