Most remote islands of the imagination conjure up paradise. Japan is an archipelago of puzzlement, lost to the rest of the world for two and a half centuries.

From the sands that forged their swords and serenity, they traveled a timeline of temples and shrines and feudal fortresses and flowing mountain streams. On sashimi and soy sauce, green tea over rice, they lived under cherry blossoms and ephemeral moonlight, in Zen gardens and futon dreams.

After the rain. To be alive. Before the dawn. It was all so perfect.