I CROSS THE street. The snow is heavy and wet. Evening falls quietly. The brake lights suddenly glow sharper. Red reflections in frozen slush. A snowflake falls into my eye. A young woman, her arms loaded with packages from a department store, smiles as she goes past. How does she manage in the snow with shoes like that? Some art forms are harder to master than others. A man runs into me as he goes by. I stumble. He turns around to say he’s sorry but already his voice is fading. I go on my way without quite recovering my balance. Horns are blaring at me from all sides. Urban music. Through a fog I see a woman screaming something at me, her eyes and mouth wide open. Among the cars, I search for the celebrated barrier that Basho was so happy to cross to take the narrow road that led to the Interior.