City too big to be called a city. City too large to fit on any map. City too huge to have a name. In the city of Mega, it never rains. The colossal pap of remediation hits me. Hey, maybe you only live three times. Sidewinding down to the intermission between tracks one and two. Burning tool hunters. Opera evasions on the side, glassed out emergency macs all over. City of chrome bars and enamel furniture. Primary colours, fruit fusions and blue buttons. Spouts of water dressed as funerals. Arriving at a conclusion that was someone else’s initial departure point. Playing tag with the beacons of drizzle. All of a sudden, the atmosphere becomes turpid. Like sunglasses freeze-fitted to the face. The winking lights of the riverside expressway warm my heart. Applying lip gloss in the dark. Waiting for the subway train that will spirit me to Jeju-do, and the lava tubes. Singing a sad folk song upon your departure. Finding out its name years later. Spin-dried woollen pants. Silkworm rot. Bangs in which the alarms have been triggered. Frozen lakes full of fish. A city in which elections take years to analyse and decipher. City of rotating female leaders. Hits from the blog. Tokens from token amusement park rides. Fightbacks from K1 veterans eager for a news career. Mushy peas, dried pumpkin leaves and persimmon flakes. Shadow-lords, ubermallets. Bingo drums. Carpark solidarity. City of one-way tickets for speed. Sorry for the explosion demands, it was all just hot heirs and taffeta honorifics, babe. I was actually looking forward to the fireworks tonight but the line was engaged and I’d run out of sweat cannisters. Instead, I hurled abuse at a bizarro poster, then emptied myself in the nearest bath. Strawberry soju forever.