It's nightime in the big city of Tokyo. Rei Kawakubo sits on a polka-dotted park bench, wearing a trenchcoat backwards and not smoking a cigarette.
Nighttime continues, as I, Haruki Murakami, continue to type this. I sip my coffee, as Bob Dylan plays in my walkman. I don't know how long my walkman will continue to run for. I'd buy an ipod but my deal with Sony prevents this. Rei Kawakubo continues to do nothing in particular.
Rei: "Really. Do you have to whisper everything you type in a husky sort of voice?"
I say that I do, and I continue to type. Karl Lagerfeld comes up behind me, and taps me on the back. I say "you're not really Karl Lagerfeld, you just choose to look like him for the purposes of existing in this world. I know my dramatic devices better than you."
Karl: "Actually, I'm just Karl Lagerfeld"
The man claiming to be Karl Lagerfeld continues to hover over me, occasionally taking pictures of his little fingerless gloved hands. He is not Karl Lagerfeld, I say to myself; Johnny Walker was not really Johnny Walker when I wrote "Kafka on the Shore". This is obviously some twist that I've inserted myself into this particular narrative.
Karl: "*coughs* No, really. I really am Karl Lagerfeld"
I tell myself how clever I am, inventing a character who claims to be really Karl Lagerfeld when he is in fact just pretending to be....Karl Lagerfeld
Rei: "Would you stop talking to yourself in monologue? It's like you're writing a novel or something"
I tell her I am writing a novel, as I pat a cat, because I like cats so I'll insert a cat into here.
Rei: "There is not cat there."
Neo: "There is no spoon."
Karl: "No spoon either. But Haruki, I love your work, but this is something we call "reality".
Reality. Another surreal dramatic device. I decide to investigate further...