The city has shit itself.
Someone has dumped a pile of shit outside, or at least that’s the impression you’d get from the smell flavoring the the thick air—air that’s thick as a sweatstain. The haze has subtracted the color from the world, it’s as bland as an old computer game.
In Maine or Amherst you might have mountains rolling beneath rolling clouds, all extending forever in every direction, but in Korea the backdrop is a close wall, a trap hastily erected before a backdrop of featureless whiteness.
I’m supposed to be wasting my time with the composition of lesson plans, but instead I’m up in an empty children’s book library reading Borges and musing on storylines. There is something self-destructive about this, I’m afraid of getting caught, of getting screwed, but I’m also in search of a concrete reason to go back to my home, and a shitstorm would, in fact, delight me.