I sit at the dimly lit dining table, alone with my thoughts. The lights of
the city peek into the anxious apartment. I feel like a wasted, unfur-nished house. It is April 14, 1985 in Sapporo, Japan.

My vision starts to blur. I stare at a gash in the wooden table for too
long, choose another insignificant object, and then stare once more. Focus, I tell myself. 

It’s already one o’clock in the morning, I need a break. 

I incoherently trudge to the kitchen where I grab a water bottle and hastily choose a glass. The cap rolls like a quarter onto the granite, then I pour half the bottle in. I rest my weight on my elbows and stare at the monotone backsplash. A tired peace manifests within me. 

Then a sawtooth buzz emerges. Typically, a fly is an insignificant, unnoticed aspect of life. But exponentially it is the most irritating
noise I’ve ever heard. I swat at it and even yell. I’m about to go insane.

Perhaps too forcefully, I slam the glass onto the counter, grab my jacket from the coat rack and my keys from the bookshelf. I go out the door and down three flights of stairs to breathe relatively clean air. It circulates through my veins and I settle. 

I decide to take a walk down the empty street. 

The concrete zeniths stare over me. A movement catches my attention.

A pastel cat lays at the end of an abandoned alley, rolling around in presumably its own filth. The sparkling eyes a complementary blue. I hesitate to get any closer, but do.

The details of the cat then come into fruition. The eyes are even more distinguished than I could imagine. Something about this cat has failed to repel me. Now I’m less than a meter away; the cat tilts its head in curiosity. I bend down, cup my hand, and pat the top of its soft, harmless head. 

As if in response, the city claps a sound of generators shutting down. My heart gains buoyancy. A blackness engulfs the citadel. The cat’s eyes glow a phosphorescent baby blue, undisturbed by the power outage. Two whole galaxies hover in the near pitch-black environment. Then a scattered green light appears. Lightning bugs emerge from the nooks and crannies of the concrete. Hundreds, then thousands of them manifest throughout the entire height of the alley. For the first time in my life, I start to look up. 

A faint white light catches my eye. The light pollution of the city is expunged. I run back through the alley to the wide open intersection. The stars are palpable figures that feel as if they are projections only meters away. Fire hydrants, trash bags, and bushes are faintly illuminated. I soak in the catharsis and reach my hand out to a firefly. It lands on my palm and turns off its light. At a closer glance, it looks convincingly similar to a common housefly.