—For Shin Hae-uk
In another room, there is a three-seater couch that your

position only permits you to look at—never to sit on.

The executives share feedback about how the cushions

are as soft as a baby’s belly before feeding. Suspiciousness

filters through you while recording such an alliterative

account for the meeting’s minutes. To interrupt this pattern

of thinking, you inhale a deep breath and whisper—even

though I have been stripped of installation I know I deserve

money in my life. She, the figure sitting next to you, trembles

upon hearing this. Only after you type out, order, and circulate

the daily reports do you realise you have made a mistake

of address and begin picking at the dirt beneath your nails.

To loosen the growing tension in your shoulders, you twist

your upper body in the direction of a team of people marching

toward you—not stopping at the doorway of the room to admire

the configuration of the couch, and this is no small thing.