Auld Lang Syne plays slowly over the intercom of a stuffy bookstore--time to make your final purchases, oh honorable customers, it tells us.

Burberry scarfed schoolgirls parade ruthlessly around Shinjuku, their shiny black shoes stomping in that oh-so-innocent manner indicative of youthful ignorance in bliss--the time in one's life when they are truly, the ruler of the world and nothing anyone can say will change that.

Yodobashi Camera closes it's doors for the night, and somewhere, in a smoky coffee shop, a Japanese girl is learning French from a man twice her age.

The stars shine brightly overhead, but not brighter than the lights of Tokyo--those infinitely burning candles remain invisible to anyone planted on the surface of the labyrinth that is Shinjuku. The Karaoke advertisements, game centers, pachinko parlors and Kabukicho solicitations completely obliterate any other galaxy while simultaneously erasing the darkness of the night.

I'm running for a train.

From platform 8 to platform 2--I can see the Joban express pull in from the causeway that me and forty other commuters are sprinting across; mothers, daughters, grandpas, grandmas and salarymen, we're all racing in our suits and ties, in our skirts and in our Kimonos.

Everyone pushes hard for victory: a spot somewhere on that train

But I didn't run marathons and 10ks to get stuck waiting for the next departure.

And as I'm passing them, I can't shake the feeling that there is nothing more patently Japanese than literally running at your top speed for 45 seconds--sprinting up one flight of stairs, over the tracks, down another flight of stairs, and into a train car--just to save a few minutes on the ride home.

But after I actually made it safely into the train car, I realized there is something more Japanese than that: sprinting the entire way, only to see the door closing in front of you--and knowing that you can't make it--hurling yourself hopelessly into it's merciless, unrelenting jaws, as the man directly behind me in that great race did.

Now that is fortitude.

Three-quarters of his body was in the door, but his ankles dangled out into the unknown as the door clamped down through his black suit, pinching his calves--and though I tugged frantically at the door, it took another burst of strength from this salaryman to finally send him crashing face first to the floor of the train, and to safety.

The train, of course, remained silent, except for his pants.

What is there to say, anyway? Nothing at all, just sit back and enjoy the ride--sit back and stare at the endlessness of it all buzzing quietly by just beyond the windowpanes.

Somewhere in the distance Tokyo Tower is shining.

Somewhere in the distance, somewhere in that endlessness, you are too, shining.

Back in Shinjuku, those schoolgirls are running for their trains, too, and though they are not my students, I can feel their youthful exuberance so full of mystery, so full of secrets--so curious about everything.

"Why, wh-why do you make your hair this way?"

"D-Do you know who we are?"

"D-Do you like us?"

The two plaid skirted green sweatered girls giggle, hiding their faces behind their hands and then quickly cowering behind a desk, out of my sight.

"Do-do... what do you think--do, do... Do you like ME?"

Her face beams, such an accomplishment, speaking English.

The life of a child, so full of all the things we forget as we age.

"Do-do you have girlfriend?"

"How many girlfriend do you have?"

Sometimes it's almost too cute. Too much to handle.

"Only one," I tell them, "She's very far away, and I miss her very, very much."

"Eeh?" They say, telling me in Japanese that they don't understand.

"She's in America, but I'm in Japan," I explain.

"Ahhh Sokka!" one of them exclaims, realizing what I had originally meant. "You are... ve-very sad."

Yes, yes I am.