I’m sitting on the roof of Kosin’s building #3 where the sun can’t get me from behind the mountain and the breeze keeps me cool. I can see everything on this side of the city: oryukdo (the five or six islands, depending on the tide) and its lighthouse, the Buddhist temple across the street, Centum City and the Gawngan Bridge in the east, Taejongdae in the west.
To my left there’s smoke puffing up out from the mountain’s forest where fire has no business being. It dies away. At the boys’ middle school, hundreds of uniform-clad students mill in and out of classrooms. Not many are leaving, even though it’s past dinnertime.
Mountains and clouds play across the water. The boats glide in and out of the harbor. On the road below, cats slink around and it’s a good night for writing. The glockenspiel’s wooden twang from the temple, now the Taekwondo students yelling as they hit things in the gym four floors below. Lightning off the southern coast of Taejongde. Moments like this could last forever and I would be pleased.
Maybe I’d be more pleased if I’d thought to brush my teeth, though, and my mouth didn’t feel like curry. Mosquitoes at seven-thirty: time to go in.