My dad had this wonderful train set when I was a kid. Built atop a slab of plywood the size of a small bedroom, he’d wrought mountains from papier-mâché, built villages populated with policemen, grocery stores, and sports cars. I loved that train set, so I destroyed it.
I peeled locomotives from their tracks and — using a flat-head screwdriver and the powers of Hell — peered into their guts. Whole lines disappeared, imaginary travelers vanishing into the ether forever. Eventually I moved on, but not before tearing through dad’s once majestic world like Godzilla on amphetamines. To this day, I still love trains, though, so it’s great to live in Japan, where life necessitates a daily ride.