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Murakami never fails to shed blood. I am floating out of sync, as if this rock spins too fast and leaves me out of touch with this dirt..

On the fifth of August, I will meet friends from elementary school for the first time in six years. Some of them have stayed here and are probably studying for Sunung, some have left this country for other schools, boarding schools, and some stopped going to high school. And we are going to sit in a movie theater like magnetized bits of iron facing the same way and later drink coffee and talk about each other, comparing lives, seeing old faces in a new way. Afterwards we'll all leave and separate, and that will be it. Or maybe it will be more and something else, different, important and uncertain, like scratches in a 35mm negative.

What I am now is someone diluted, half-existent. Every day the gap between my two front doors gets wider, and I have trouble staying up at night. Sleep engulfs me like the sound of raging rapids. There's this indescribeable lightness -- that means that I am not able to describe the way that I can't describe this indescribable lightness; I am left to trying to describe myself with the shape that car headlights leave on the inside of my eyelids and the pollution haze that lies all over this city, and I console myself with the hope that music will make it all right -- and it does, but only in short increments. Maybe tomorrow I will go downtown again, to Jongro, and I'll sit in a corner trying to take pictures like Cartier-Bresson. At the end of the day I'll ride the subway lamenting at the fact that, No, I cannot compress the infinite into a moment, isolate the frame, take photos like a painter; maybe I'll lose my pen, change a roll to black-and-white, listen to music, believe in bus rides, think about streetlights.

On these buses and subways I will think about Korea's hedonism and wonder about things like what Westernization is to Modernization and the paradoxical state of knowing things too well to write about them;

Something doesn't make sense, like the battery graph on my laptop telling me that I have twelve minutes left, at this time in the morning, and if I humor myself I can imagine that I can feel the ghost of a dawn arriving, these phantom flirtations of morning..