You drift in and out of darkness as the drunken man staggers up the steep tar hill in Namsanjeong, shouting god knows what to himself; it is so late the buses have stopped roaring along the main road, and there is a silence so deep it’s easy to slip back inside the loose kind of rest where one’s thoughts disconnect and fly apart without attaining the glow of dreams; the man shouts again and you wake up again, your mind is recomposed and returned to itself; in the quiet the scattered insects start to catch fire and pulse in a blue field of tall grass; the man shouts again…

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