Sleepers on the streets are said to transmit a disease to those who come and sleep beside them in spite of themselves. Just lying next to each other, skin to skin, they transmit and catch the disease and are all dying. While sleeping, they cannot close their mouths.

It is said a shaman can’t have a grave after death and those who were once such trivial things while living need to suffer from tenderness more severely after death; in spite of themselves, they look most vulnerable, not on the blade of a knife but on human beings.

Opening the cage I expose and look into the throat of a dead bird with my finger. A wet worm crawls out. The worm licks the darkness smeared over its body. As it is not the darkness of this world, I think of the evening of birds with no graves.

At a Gamjatang (Potato-pork stew) restaurant, I am picking a bone clean, sweating all over, and on the other side I see someone doing the same. Inside here is just like us. Outside of the window stands a beggar with his hands in his pockets, staring at us. Hey you, out there is the outside of us! Without shutting our mouths, we are sweating considerably, licking, sucking, and picking bones while far away in the sky a cargo plane is carried like an emergency patient roaring a fucking thundering noise. Without knowing themselves, here everyone opens the verdure of their mouth and goes into the mouth of a bird and falls asleep, yes, let us just shut up, let us close, close.