Out walking somewhere unfamiliar in Tokyo. About a quarter to six o’clock and the sun had nearly set. A warm day, it was still about twenty-five degrees and humid. It was the third week of September and the sort of day that’s somewhere in between summer and autumn, stuck in a seasonal limbo between the two.

Everything felt slightly out of alignment and vaguely dissonant, though in a curiously pleasant way. The air itself seemed to hum.

Streetlights were switching on, as were lights on buildings all around. But something was off.

First on one apartment building, then another, the lights lining the long exterior walkways started switching on and off frenetically, as if controlled by the fluttering wings of so many electric butterflies flitting about in the evening sky.

The atmospheric hum grew intense and spread throughout everything. The world vibrated and sang for a brief time, and there was a sense of building pressure, as when one dives deep underwater.

It all remained suspended in this state for a minute or so, until some cosmic valve opened and there was a sudden release of pressure.

The lights ceased flashing, the world back to normal. Everyone continued on with their Saturday evening as if nothing had happened. Reality had glitched, and nobody seemed to have noticed.