no, more accurately, I am sleeping in an empty apartment looking at
the lights of a city that reminds me of being alone. Soon I will wake
up with the sun and wander in the Forbidden City, go through art
districts, talk with an old teacher, and that will surely be nice.
Even later in the night I might go through streets and dream of meals,
friends, companions. I am so used to the rhythm of meeting people so
freely, that I am tempted to jump into a hostel and fish some people
out of there. More than anything I want a few good friends on a
rooftop, drinking and smoking and talking fervently about things we
care about, late into the night, I want the vigorous intensity of
desire, want want want want want, not the limpid dead rotten aroma of
everything made fun of, jeered at; I want the vivacity of things
smelling alive and dreaming.
I want to know what it is like to live here, wander in these streets, I want to know what it is to grow and wake up and have a studio and to create, to live in the atmosphere of fervor and growth. I want this in Seoul but am not sure if it exists there, I want this in New York because I know it and will find it back home. I want deep nights, I want close friends. I want want want want. I want, want, want want want.