Nakameguro. The parade of cherry trees along the river unfurl their swollen blossoms, little white flags of purity betrayed only by the faintest of pink stains, slow wounds to their perfection that in time will doom them to the water below. We walk silently under the falling petals dodging the hordes photographing this arc: birth and death and the disposal of beauty. The gray sky sags heavy with threat, menacing the blossoms’ already fragile hold on the slender boughs. The sublime, she says, is beauty in the face of terror, although I think she was quoting someone else. We stop for a coffee at a dog café. A white-haired man who looks wealthy sits beside us with his shaggy collie lying at his feet. Each passerby glances down at the dog, initially charmed by the familiar outline of its fetching Lassie-ness, but recoiling sharply at the scabby mange on top of its scalp. The rich man smokes his pipe oblivious to their horror, or maybe he derives the sadist’s pleasure from their discomfort. I know these people, like the rest of us, are capable of this. There are some of the same shops along the river as before – the great Cow Books remains – and there are new ones that hawk the most recent trends. Across the river she goes to try on sweaters at the APC Surplus while I stay outside to finish the boiled sweet potato I’ve peeled messily in haste.