So Above, So Beneath

You’ve got to duck down to get to the Deokcheon Dungeon, and by that I mean you’ve got to go underground, descending via talking escalator, elevator, or slab staircase to a long throat of concrete: there is the Deokcheon Dun-geon: there is Deokcheon Fashion Street, where in windows stand imprisoned mannequins, their thin limbs draped in the bleached tatters that pass for fashion these days: men are never in shorts: women bear legs up to the ass-cheek, but you won’t find a shade of luscious cleavage, for that would be obscene, their nipples flat and tame and quite unlike the armored spikes of the west, erect, at attention, ready for action: all beneath typical pale electronic light, all above the gawking stares of teenagers, babbling gaggles released from eternal rote-memorization so they can slurp at straws and catcall sensitive foreign men!—one day the sewer pipes burst, flooding Fashion Street with shit, stuffing shit down its choking throat, and the strange thing is that nobody notices the difference, and though the populace must wade through steaming piles of their own shit, things go on as before. So above, so beneath.

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