A week can hold one quieter stretch — slow as Daikanyama's back streets — where a part of yourself you've kept at a distance might come closer.

Indigo settling toward black, quiet and unlit. It carries a held silence with weight, and the cool of stone kept out of the sun.

Keeping a part of yourself at arm's length all week is its own quiet strain. Nothing has to be solved — only allowed, in an unhurried stretch, to come close enough to be met.