There’s an alarm on in Yokohama. A siren, somewhere out in the night, all night, at the edge of what I’m sure I can hear - except I am sure, I may as well have fallen off the sea bus into it and while the sound slaps across my upturned nose and mouth I compose something to say to the others about our situation. The sea bus:  it’s a mishearing of Sea Bass, as in threaded and propped on a yaki stick, eyes clear and flanks carved away into delicious parallelograms. Each leaps and slaps the surface joyful, passengers shaken off. Who knows the heat of the interior. Out here exposed it’s coastal winds swirling. And into the mouths of the dogs in the malls, all carried in baskets and strollers.