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In Kuniyoshi's most famous print, a colossal skeleton — the gashadokuro — leans through the torn screens of the Sōma palace, summoned by a sorceress's grudge. Here it leans through somewhere it fits at least as well: the dark of an open-plan office past midnight, peering over the cubicle partitions at the one employee still typing in the glow of his monitor. He has not noticed. The clock has. The gashadokuro of legend assembles itself from the bones of those who died unmourned and unburied; the modern reading writes itself. This is for everyone who has heard the office go quiet around them and kept working anyway — the deadline personified, the homage exact enough that print collectors will recognise the pose. The cold canned coffee is optional. The skeleton is not.

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