Fuck, I have to get out. There are no foreigners in this Korean neighborhood so I don’t talk to anybody. So, who wants to get a beer. When and where…eh, you know what, let’s not even do the logistics charade. I’ll bail on you unless you are a female with whom I have not yet had sexual congress. I just want you to want me to come out.
I’ve been on lockdown, writing in the villa. It’s like being in the hatch from LOST. And now I’m growing a beard. I catch my reflection and think: what is this guy’s story. I see a contract killer who did bad things for the right reasons a long time ago in another hemisphere and fled to the edge of the map. Forever in wait for that one day when you ID the white guy in aviators parked up the block, watching you buy melons. Feeling the hot flare in your nerves as your right hand moves to your waistband. They should have left you alone.
I have to get out. But on the other hand it’s nice to be in a place where you don’t speak the language. You don’t need to have a trite take on the royal baby or whateverthefuck. Or: maybe it’s not very nice. People have stopped looking at the tall foreigner because they’ve gotten used to me. Hey, townsfolk, what the fuck. Why don’t you bother me anymore. I mean, it’s not like we were going to talk. I just want you to want to talk to me.