Eyes open of their own accord, very undramatic, reaching for it, click, time: 3AM. Three stories above ground level on a wad of futon and below that, tatami, jet-lag's purring at my bones like a bored cat, deep sleep out of the question. I go for a walk. The early morning is pleasantly surreal here and for this it's worth missing out on sleep. For 4 hours I criss-cross an area dominated by residential buildings interspersed with vending machines, shrines, semi-automatic car parking systems and often a hygienically lid 24h convenience store. Around 7:30AM I find myself in a café halfway through a tuna sandwich, supernaturally identical to the picture on the menu (no McDonalds let down here) and conveniently similar to an icon in the digital realm, maybe in the inventory window of a MMORPG or a free App Store game gone viral. Stylized representation, well considered crustless, an edible variety of augmented reality. Slurping coffee which tastes realer than real, it's tweaked, I'm firmly convinced, to taste exactly how I imagine coffee should taste. They consolidate the entirety of binary feeds worldwide on everything tagged coffee before drawing it from a humble beige fountain machine silkscreened a cute anthropomorphic doodle, serving this global instant's average. Horticulture stealth, probably on the border of what's legal, very tasty. The simulacrum works because it, in its average leaves room for you. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself here, could be this mug just holds the perfect coffee to salt ratio. Time rotates, alpha waves replace beta waves, I don't even feel itOutside, society is revving up, hard to tell what will become of the day. 8AM slate ambience blends with muzak rendered jazz from speakers integrated in the lowered ceiling. Air-con tuned to a sedating 24 degrees celsius. I feel like a puppy wrapped in cotton, a baby just awoken from a nap or a princess themed cupcake about to collapse and to top it all I'm wearing this pair of five star hotel quality terry sweatpants I picked up in a store which among countless items also stocks fresh fish. Something of 50% gray, moving at the edge of my bubble, sprinkles or the driest slice of toast crushed mid-air announces its drowsy presence, the Sandman? Eyes roll, tripping into the valley of a theta wave just then. They'd probably make a fuss about this in a guide book although combinations as this aren't exotic anymore, placing an order for refill printer ink, chocolate chip cookies and a sports bra online from one retailer - easily accomplished. Up an alpha hill and a base jump through slow theta waves. Bouncy membrane from reality to the synthesized. The malleable, digitized, then shaken to life again, uncontaminated voodoo, facilitated by that flatscreen vending machine. These pants, can't headline, but they'd make the perfect blurb for things dubbed comfortable living.Utmost Determined Relax. Consciousness as sprayed from an can of sweetened whipped cream. Cordial bake-off scent.Smartphone puzzle game graphic sandwich, perfect coffee, jet lag and jazz. Caught beyond energizing, drop into yet another theta valley, fragments of that leaked video clear of grasp somewhere in the periphery, staged I think, presented by a kind of upscale Anonymous, exclusive renegades, luxury Marxists, extrapolated Gibsonian tech/art combo, Rat Bohemia, enigmatic street definitely no fedora here but not really any wear either, some kind of new grunge? A piece of stuff materialized by a 3D printer, gelatinously wobbly like the depiction of a desert mirage in a 90s country/rock/pop-hybrid music video. Darkness, spidery progress, visible in soft pulses offered by the breath of an azure LED cluster cased in frosted acrylic. Miniature steel arms, plastic syringes and titanium pincers at work, the crackly bustle inside an anthill, a single object crafted like the hands of four working on one tapestry, offering something better than surgical precision, homemade, hand crafted, neo-friendly. The process burrowed deep within a flatscreen plastered vending machine, squished between an outdated business card machine and a humble four by six stack of tired lockers in a forgotten part of the labyrinth of the busiest train station on planet Earth.

An index finger to the glass pane of the café's door slouches me out of thetaville and up to beta. Index finger repeats, nothing happens; does it again - nothing happens. Consumed in ambient glow from a handheld rectangle our café guest is forced to look up and with a sigh locate and tap the button stenciled open. Borderless transition thing. Digitized to real, smooth gradient. Subtle changes in the rudimentary construct, the good old arcane wiring beneath reality, adapting to our presence, inaudible like a shoal of relaxed jellyfish.