Another one of my strange quirks is that I can't resist taking photos of alleys in Japan. Something about the dense wall to wall streets create neat hallows of urbanity. These winding concrete alcoves are the living quarters for all kinds of Japanese folk, from old farmers to young families. The neat thing is walking down these snaky paved tightly compact streets and getting the sounds and smells of the burghal life of the city's core. In the distance American jazz plays on a radio, something sizzling on a frying pan, somebody singing in the shower, a baby crying, a dog dreaming under a tree just allowing himself to wake up enough to perk up his ear as I pass by. But this inner-city within the city is where all humanity tick tocks by as the story of life continues on like a steady time keeper. Here is where I roam, up and down the hot black topped paved byways until I come out into the fresh green coolness of a light summer breeze and stand before yet another ancient temple.
Here I feel at peace. Here, this land I once heard of in a lullaby. Here is my Oz, my home away from home.