The yellow and green patterned fields flashed by.
Blue tiled roofs lasted a little longer on the retina, but the bent-over field-hands were nothing more than a fleeting curiosity.
The sky was blue with a passing cloud or two. I would compose the frame, then black; another tunnel.
The periods of black through the volcanic masses were frequent, but we were never thrust into the world of glowing red dots; that on an Italian train of smokers would seem like beacons, indicating a face a few feet away from them. On a Shinkansen, the lights stayed on.
A sign on the toilet door said Japanese style.
At least in this primitive posture it was reassuring to know that with all the irregular eating and sleeping patterns my body still functioned in good condition. There was an alarm button should one slip a disc in an unfortunate position; reassuring to know.
Across the corridor in the washing area, some plastic flowers were aesthetically arranged, but I found no hand towels.