a sleepy town keeps you awake / finding a perfect red imprint on your thigh

어젯밤에 꿈을 꿨는데

어떤 모텔(?)에서 푸른숲애들이랑 놀고 있다가 ㅁㅅ 빼고 다 갔어. 나도 가려 했다가 어떤 사정땜에 버스 다시 내렸어. 근데 내 가방이랑 핸드폰을 놓고 내렸어. 그래서 당연히 나없이 버스가고 내가 울다가 ㅁㅅ 나를 발견하고 위로해줬는데.. 내가 계속 '핸드폰, 핸드폰' 없다고 하고 ㅁㅅ '원민휴대폰?' 약간 내 한국말을 고치려는 말투였는데 ㅋㅋㅋ 그게 혼란스러웠어. 결국 아무도 나를 도와주지 않았고 엄청 스트레스 많은 꿈이었단다.

the way your mother looks at you with such tenderness, and after the first ripple of excitement and confusion courses through you, you ask : "What [do I have on me/did I do/ is wrong with you]?"

//

Knowing that you're only good at doing one thing at a time - writing in cursive with original thoughts is too much for you.

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The irresistible tension of the ridged pad of a thumb against the shaft of a crisp yellowed page.

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The base of the subway stairs smelling like white wine at the communion of a foreign - yet familiar - church.

when you find friends, who will you be? will you laugh from the throat? will you reach for the light? i'll wonder about you as you grow up.

your eyes are like those of a child - the way you hold a drawing to your face, the way you notice the minute details and have an opinion on each line, colour choice.

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the way you keep quiet despite all this, the words never leaving the vast crevasses of your mind.

i love the way / each breath makes itself known, clouds of / aspiration, almost as proof / that my body does, indeed, work for / its life

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i love / how snow falls on hair like / pearls on fire, on / hers especially.

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i love the sounds of steps over crushed / textures, a soft reminder / of being alive / of being one among many, many

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i love how fragile / parts are covered, how / limp necks are supported by blood red wool, / bound and rebound / into a chokehold.

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i love how every time, without fail / wen the crystal ash falls from the skies / i am a child again.

It was about Korean restaurants? There were these two siblings and the younger sibling was very lively, and two guys in the neighbourhood had a crush on him. One of the guys tutored him, and the other idk some dude

you and a canvas stand alone in an empty room. / the white of the canvas stares back at you. / it's petrifying. / before long, you strain your eyes, searching the endless white space / desperate for a shadow or a faint contour in its blank abyss.

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and in your immobilized state / the urge to dirty it is unbearable. / this dastardly bleached, bone-bare square, / if you give it a mark, a bruise, anything at all! / your hand, at the very least, could feed this starved page! / your ink pauses / inches from the white surfaced. / you pause. / your brush lowers. you stand there / until tears prick your eyes / your calves burn / but you stare back / and your neck is alight from heat and too much time in one place. / it's blank and you stare back. / you wait and will i with bated breath - will the art to have the face to...