A silent street in Tokyo.
The office was always hectic, full of life and people moving from one place to another with papers, notebooks and juicy news of the latest scandal. The beautiful noise of typewriters never stopped, to the annoyance of the adjoining houses, the newspaper had to come out without delay. The smoke of cigarettes was often mixed with the smell of fresh ink, meat and tomato from the sandwiches of the shop downstairs, oregano from the pizzas from around the corner, and coffee, so much coffee we had more of it in our veins that actual blood.
But now there’s just silence, no typewriters, no more tasty smells to accompany the lonely nights, the smoke has vanished, the ink has dried. It all remains in silence.