Nights in the Asian city are the dog barking in the dark back alley. Nights in the Asian city are the smell of burning incense and tobacco passing by a temple. Are the unbearable humidity that can’t be suffocated by the ceiling fan, and the extreme cold chasing a passer on February. Nights in the Asian city are hidden by opaque curtains. Are the silence of a man searching for a minute of human warmth, and the loud noise of a pachinko parlor. Nights in the Asian city are the waiting time for the last train that seems to never come and for the life that, once you realise, has already departed.