Words are floating around. Among streets, among buildings, among bridges, in the floating words, is news of my ex-wife or the language of a flower I don’t know. Outside the window, white ants are moving from landscape to landscape, nibbling at perspective. For some time now, if I step into a painting, it gets torn. Where have all the landscapes gone that used to save me? Since the 1960’s, God has pretended to be dead. Since the 1960’s, stress has been placed on the rank of gods whose name ends in ‘s’ such as Dionysus or Zeus. Now there’s no prophecy that makes anyone’s heart flutter. Those who already got divorced have more divorces to get. Every day seems to be a different age. Every day is a picnic with innumerable changes. While rolling Gimbap, you clench your fist with rage, and make a rice ball. It’s scary. The word ‘objective’ is the enemy of all words. A few floating words attached together well turn into the key to a different world. Still there’s no salvation. They say a god recently earned a certificate as a chef. He spends all day making Dongpo pork and lives saying ‘Everything is accomplished, it looks very nice.’ Words are floating around among all the gaps and openings, as if sliding, as if swimming. Quibbling over the floating words, I often cry in front of people. At first, in front of one or two, but now I often cry in front of ten or twenty. My final goal is to cry in front of a hundred people. A woman among them will hold me tight. I will love her, make love to her, marry her, and divorce her. If I shake a long-kept diary, countless, minute, trivial words fall out of the pages and float in the air, lightly, buoyantly. In front of beauty with no salvation, I ache helplessly again today.