Silver spins by wrapped in black, rubber on asphalt, fast fast fast. He finally understands why they call it that, burning rubber. He cannot feel the heat but he smells it, searing across the blacktop, sizzling in the night.
Red whizzes through him from behind while blue assaults him from the front. Zoom, zoom. So bright and brief. The bugs are bigger up close.
"what are we-" "-then I was-" "-dinner tonight-" "-of a bitch-" "-my head I know it-" "tries to pull me in so I have learned-" "-that a kid?! Stop the-"
He spins and the colors spin with him, neon carouseling in the late night sky. The owls are speeding home to their nests, travelling in style- shiny silver, racing read, bright blue, all the colors of the urban rainbow.
Another car slams through him (he doesn't feel a thing not in this plane his plane) and for an instant he is someone else- Mitsuki Himura, coming home from work, husband is going to kill me I'm so late so late, music blasting in the radio boyfriend's message burning through the pocket of my coat flaming rising smoking lust consuming every inch-
Black car zips off down the street and the thoughts trail after it, petering off into the air, devoured by the universe and forgotten just as fast. Yellow taxi cuts through and now he is Mako Maki and didn't my parents have a sense of humor I'm so done with their shit, so done, "Which street is your stop again?", as soon as this shift is done I am leaving not coming back today tomorrow ever, talk show yammering between clouds of static (black and white glittering on cracked leather seats ugly voices in a beat up car so fucking done)
Blue leaves and he is bombarded: reds and yellows and greens and even pink, rainbow road rage reeling in his mind. He laughs. He spins. The drivers and their passengers soar through him, thoughts gliding across the surface of his brain. Words or phrases or lyrics get stuck in the cracks, sinking down and resting there. He will sleep on them tonight and wake up with stranger's conversations growing in his ear.
He is a ghost in the middle of the road, a vengeful spirit with no one to avenge, wreaking havoc in little ways. Flickering radio stations imprinting dirty thoughts mean words sewing seeds of guilt and regret and anger tearing things apart. He is a poltergeist and a god and he has never felt this close to the city, to the universe, to anything. Highway sounds roar around him, the vibrations of hundreds of thousands of people running up his legs. He feels them all, inside of him, and in this moment he does not feel hatred and he does not feel empty.
He is not Joshua Kiryu, he is Daichi Inoue he is Aimi Oshiro he is every single human being coming and going and living and dying, every soul is ripping through him, leaving marks that will be gone by morning, warped by dreams into surreal memories…
And in the morning he is nothing more than any of them. An empty shell in a colorful world, pretending to understand the painting he is a part of. Pretending that he doesn't hate every single one of them, that he wouldn't trade them all for a bowl of Shio Ramen if he were hungry enough. Even if he sunk into the ground he could not be any closer to the city's heart or its people, he will never feel the pulse of Shibuya more than right now.
The sun will come up, and he will go home. He will pretend he's been asleep all night and Mr. H will pretend to believe him. Then he will reap souls and run his Game and sometimes he thinks that he could swallow the whole world and still not feel full.
There is a city in his stomach and he is still empty. He is still alone.