A job like mine, you will have no trouble talking to people. Or should I say it other way around? To get a job like mine, you need to talk to a lot of people. Whatever, whether the trait came naturally or it was acquired, it didn't matter then. Not then. It was as if there was a thin veil between us. We were sharing the same atmosphere, breathing the same, smoke laden air and drinking in the same sound, the buzz and the murmur that people create in the background. It was soon pushed out, as if someone turned the sound control knob slowly. Sound faded away, like that of an audience who falls into a respectful silence, waiting for the show-perhaps the most grand-to start. All I could hear was my (suddenly) hoarse breathing and my heartbeat. It wasn't those times when I could just confidently walk up to a girl and start up a conversation, just like that. It wasn't like that. It just wasn't.

Most people were on the dance floor now. It's funny how people just pair up, or at least stay on the dance floor once the music starts - and I bet these people are not even close. I never turned down a drink nor do I hate it, but I always held contempt for people who cannot learn to appreciate the taste or control themselves well enough to stay dignified, as their clothes suggested. Wonders of alcohol. It can really do many things, can't it?

Perhaps alcohol was what pushed me onwards that night. What can I say? I must have fallen into that degrading category myself. At the same time, an air of rejection pushed me away, drawing an invisible line across the space between me and that Sophia or whatever she was. She was hospitable enough, as any host should, answering her friends and politely turning down proposals to dance(that came with much lavish bravado and flowery words that almost brought bile up to my mouth), but what as I silently watched her with a glass of water I noticed something different that others didn't seem to notice. She was fragile.

She was like glass, even with all her bravado and jokes that could make a room full of senile old people fill with laughter, she kept to herself, silently nursing her wound-or should I say 'crack'?- willing it to heal, so that she could become whole again. To be that beauty once again. She wasn't the world's most stunning beauty, but under that smoky lighting, humdrums of the bar and glints of light bouncing off the shiny glasses polished again and again by Jacques she looked beautiful. Not the beauty of a finished sculpture or a magnificent building that took centuries to build, but the fragile beauty of an injured princess, in distress - like the beauty of a broken glass shattered across a red velvet. Perhaps it evoked the cave man instinct in me - the cavalier spirit which brings a man to protect a girl in distress - it propelled me to push against her invisible boundaries and go through.

"This is your party isn't it? I'm guessing you are the hostess."

Slipping off my seat and casually walking towards her I could see her wince and tense, like an wounded animal deciding on flight or fight instinct. Standing behind her, diagonal away from her view as she purposefully moved her eyes away from me once she noticed me coming, nobody will ever know how hard it was to bring up those two sentences to my mouth. She turned around, looking at me she just answered curtly.

"Yes, and you are the singer."

If you look from outside, then you'll know that she is pushing me away. But inside, she looked like someone who needs help. Someone to protect her. Except that she's been hurt, and she's been down that alley before - she was too afraid to make the same mistake. The look on her face betrayed her actions, her intentions. I almost reached out to her, to hold her hand, touch her cheek, gently caress her hair and tell her it's okay -

- but we all know that if I were to do that, then I'd just be a pervert yes? I held my hand back, waiting, just waiting...for something, some word, some action to let me speak and know her a bit more. To find out why she wears that broken expression.....and perhaps, just perhaps, to repair her.

I miss you.

I miss you so much, my love, my dear, my heart.

Although I know that I am being grossly cheesy, those are the right words for now.

I cannot overemphasize that I miss you in my bed every night.

Perhaps project week has only made things worse.

Doomed us to eternal pains in our heart as we have tasted pleasures that will most likely never be permitted.

Dull ache grips me in my heart tonight love.

Not your fault, do not fret.

Only my soul resonates sadly tonight longing for you,

but perhaps that is asking for too much.

I miss your hands,

how they feel in my hand as we walked along many streets,

how it used to make me feel so proud and happy in my heart,

filling it up with desires to shout out to the world

'this is my girlfriend'

I miss your eyes,

how they look at you with understandings that

even the oldest friend sometimes cannot offer,

how they arch down slightly on the sides as they express happiness,

how your eyes shine as I looked at your closed and open eyes while we are kissing.

I miss your voice,

it is not husky yet it is not high and melodious

if i were to comment on it,

I would have to say you have a very boyish voice

Your voice brings life to meanings that words spoken normally do not have.

I miss your hugs,

how your hands will softly trail up my neck,

how your arms firmly held me close to you,

you try to hug me tighter than I, but that doesn't work,

But you hug me with passion that surpasses anything,

seeping though the cold mask of a queen.

I miss your kisses,

when we shared one secretly so that we may not disturb other people and

cherish every second of it,

they are brief, sometimes no more than a peck,

a brush of your lips against my own,

moistening the cracked lips like mother nature does drought-stricken land.

sometimes they may be slightly longer,

passionate discoveries as we delve deeper into each other,

as we almost merge ourselves together, joined at various points of our body.

We ourselves stay in secret,

our secret dance hidden in a ballroom as large as the world yet no one can see,

we precariously dance; I am fire and you are gunpowder,

or I am fire and you are water,

or I may even be a heart and you the knife,

dancing precariously close;

we know our dances will end in possible tragedies.

Yet your kisses are too irresistible,

lips too good to ignore;

and to see your hand is for me to grab them in both hands and kiss it,

to see you turning your back to me means I am strongly urged to hug you from behind, cradling you to my chest.

We are dancing; some times so close that we touch,

yet we pull away again,

exerting tremendous self controls.

Perhaps one day we will not have to fear anything but us.

But love, that is already very risky.

Don't fret, I am here; the risk will be gone by then.

The gunpowder then would be too wet to actually explode,

the knife rusted,

and fire hot enough to stay lit,

like magnesium does underwater.

Don't fret dear, I am here.

One day.

That requires time I'm afraid, and the time we may or may not have.

We do not need to fear;

the time brings with it its promised gift to all;

the end.

but it also brings with it its hectic promises;

twists in fate,

changes in destinies,

and most importantly,

the opportunity and the ability to change our future.

So please my dearest

open your heart to me.

If only you knew how desperately

I wanted to hold you,

comfort you,

offer you my shirt to wipe your tears,

and shoulder or chest to lean against.

Don't fret dear, I am here.

First song is "Kiss the Rain" by Yiruma. Tranquil melody played at higher range gently waved over to the audience. The gentle hubbub of chatter slowly died down to listen to the soft music I was playing. It grows slowly to left hand chords, imitating the gentle melody of rain against the window, with the 'kisses' spread over the whole songs.

Then it grows with passion, the music slowly continues and repeats the ascending and descending melody. Singing out to the audience with its gentle voice, caressing all those who have at once felt in love, reminding us of those bittersweet times.

It's a good song. It touches those people who have felt love before. Under the influence of alcohol, memories come back quicker and stronger. It's good for nights like this. Tonight, we are holding a party for these people. It's some kind of a company dinner, then extended to a small party, for the rich and the powerful, I guess.

The ending returns to the quiet, soft arpeggio....an impromptu by me. I was generously received - lots of claps, a couple whistles, for a song which does not require much techniques nor skills. It's all about choosing the right song, not playing the most difficult song.

* * * * * * * * *

I cannot remember how long it's been, but it must have been over an hour I've been playing the piano. The rest of the band arrived shortly after the first song and played with me. Tonight's theme is jazz, as requested by the host of this party. Quiet harmony of double bass, saxophone, guitar, piano and drums blended into the atmosphere, intricately weaving a fabric which covered everyone so finely, unnoticeable yet the change is so blindingly obvious for the spectators.

Retreating to the bar for a rest and a drink, I was asked to mingle with the customers. A group of curious ladies came and asked me questions. I looked too young - the dress shirt and thin ribbon-tie still did not make me older. After accepting a drink graciously from one of the older ladies, I answered.

"I'm eighteen this year. Why else would I be working here?"

"Eighteen! You are far too young to stay here young man. Shouldn't you go to school?"

"I do ma'am. If anything I work hard, and this is just a bit of extra cash for me. After all, I am legal, and I need a lot more money than before for entertainment, y'know what I mean?"

That remark accompanied with a playful wink did the trick. A soft laughter smudged out from the ladies. A few more jokes and comments on how lovely all the ladies looked tonight came out of me, like an automatic answering machines. Then, I spotted her. She was towards the back of the bar, listening in to the conversation away from the main circle of ladies who surrounded me. I couldn't remember what I was saying.

"Then uh....."I trailed off.

"Then?"

"Uh....sorry. Where was I? I forgot."

"Your story about the foreign countries."

"Oh right. My bad. So I was saying..."

The transition was smooth. While the customers stood up to enjoy their drinks and socialize, some of the tables in the front was pushed to the side walls to open a small dance floor. It was subtle, not very noticeable unless one was paying hard attention to the bars' workers, who are also very discreet. In an atmosphere like this, it was hard to keep track of such things. Now, my job was done, I excused myself and jumped up to the small platform that served as a stage. The general chatter died down as I prepared to invite the host to the stage.

"Is everybody having fun tonight?"

A general murmur of yes, some shouts of agreement from drunk men, some even women. It was all the same, drunk people. They all act the same. It's very easy to entertain them and leave them a strong, memorable impression so that they come back here - you just had to stay less drunk than them.

"Well, I know you guys are from an assortment of rich and powerful companies. Most of the places you people work at are so well known here. Whoever hosted this party must be just as powerful and rich, or even richer - and that man must be happy to have you ladies and gents to celebrate his birthday! Give it up for our host Mr. Wei please!"

A short, pot-bellied man jumped up to the stage. He was in his 50s, no doubt; however he possessed that energy probably equivalent to businessmen in their 30s. He made a short speech(wise man...he didn't bore anyone at all.) and just a short announcement that the party will continue at the mansion for the adults, and the younger people will stay here, in about another hour or two, depending on everyone's condition - more laughter and hoots of challenges to that - I just saw a chance looming up. Instead of being doggedly chased around by some parents, I was probably free to go about and do whatever....ideas certainly started to form in my minds.

With that I returned to the stage... and after some songs, mostly suited to older generation, some old hits, including 'Yesterday' by Beatles as a small joke to the birthday (old)boy, the adults slowly started to move out, probably being transported the mansion - wherever that is - by chaffered cars and limousines. Then the young people, a fair mix of boys and girls of similar age(probably older than me) were left behind a slightly empty bar. Mr. Wei reminded us to keep them entertained for another couple of hours, with specific instruction to stop the drinks if they are too...inebriated.

A different assortment of songs then.

"Alright....well, seeing as I played songs non-stop, except the drinks break, I am out of ideas. Any suggestions, dedications, shout-outs....I am ready to accept them! I will be playing some soft music, until anybody approaches me."

With that, I finished my drink(A small B-52) and chucked the glass to Jacques, who was manning the bar at the time. I could feel glare and I can still swear today that he was cursing. I launched straight into a jazz impromptu, playing a medley of songs which switched whenever I felt like, or whenever I remembered any old songs. One of the older boys approached me to ask whether I could play a slow-dance song. We agreed upon the band playing "Man's first love goes till death", by F.T. Island, accompanied by a dedication to a certain Ms. Sophia.

With no piano part, I was meant to sing. I stood up to take the microphone. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Jacques taking orders from a couple more earnest boys, probably aiming to grab a girl tonight. I'll probably hand it over to the almighty iPod-plug in after this song. I can't sing all songs nor do I know all songs.

"Right," a shush descended down to the crowd.

"Our first song for tonight is 'Man's first love goes till death' by F.T. Island" I hear shouts from girls, as one of the best boy bands in Korean music charts, girls would probably love them.

"Dedicated to a certain....Ms. Sofia." Shouts died down. A curious hush now, the boys and girls looked around, trying to look for the brave boy. One at the back shouted out "Who is it?" and everybody broke the silence, asking who it could be, guessing names, laughter at ridiculous guesses and jokes suddenly filled the room......then died down.

"Should I say the name?" a loud YES filled the room.

"No no no I didn't ask you....-small laughter- I'm asking the brave knight. Should I say the name? Just say yes, and everybody know who you are."

A gruff yes, and then the crowd made way for the boy. He walked out confidently, to Sophia, I guess....I was looking at the whole situation with a slight bemused expression....and 5 seconds later I was burning up with jealousy. It was her. With tremendous self control, I had to keep my face smiling. Later I found out, I was contorting my face into a grotesque expression, nearly. I just decided to stay expressionless. I turned and with a signal to the band, the guitarist started the song. I did not want to see what was going to happen at the moment.

Turning around, I started to sing slowly. Light beat and rhythmical guitar blended to make a mellow atmosphere.

"I don't need to tell you,

I don't need to say I love you all of a sudden for you to know -"

I saw Sophia and the guy dancing slowly. When they turned, I saw Sophia's face; not altogether happy. Could it be that she was asking me to rescue her from that leech? I couldn't leave yet, the song was not finished. My heart started beating faster, this time not from jealousy but because of hope.

"I said it like several hundred times, must I say it?

Why do I have to say it for you to know -"

Our eyes met. Her eyes are a mixture of confusion, fear, sadness....happiness? Her hazel eyes expressed much. I don't know if she was communicating with me, but I'd like to believe that so. I almost lost my rhythm. Hastily catching up, I continued, wishing that the song will be over.

After 3 minutes of what felt like an hour, I was finally liberated. I jumped down, perhaps a little too eagerly. Politely accepting thanks and compliments and smartly evading any dances with "Perhaps in a little while." and "I am not fit to dance with you", I was able to arrive at the bar.

She was sat a couple seats down from me.

As the small digital clock hit 6:00 pm, Pierre walked into the bar. At 5 feet 8 and face like a school boy, he almost looks younger than me. Only tufts of premature white hair stick out at the back of his deep brown hair to tell the real age.

I could be taken for his guardian. To think that he is past thirty years old never fails to amaze me. Looking at the distorted reflection of me on a wine glass that I was wiping, I look a lot worse that Pierre does.

He's our cook. For occasions, we have to prepare finger food for a party or guests. It falls to him then, to prepare all the right stuff. All sorts of Hors d'oeuvre seem to flow out of his fingers to the customers. If anything, he makes hors d'oeuvre appetizing enough for everyone; people come to The Hourglass for the famous range of hor d'oeuvre by Pierre.

Once he has prepared the shrimps, the chips, thin slices of bread and glazed figs, it's sometime around 8. The earliest customers will come in soon. Filling myself with more of the 17 year old beauty and some sandwich made by Pierre(yes, working at a bar does have some of its pleasures) We sat down to wait for our customers for the night. One question passed over my brain like electric shock.

"Uh Jacques...what day is it today?"

Well.... it's Wednesday." he answered casually, as if he was answering an easy question.

"WHAT!"

I forgot to mention. Wednesdays are music nights. We have guest musicians from different parts of the city, the country even, and the customers will have an enjoyable night of music and alcohol, and the musicians will enjoy free flow of drinks that night, provided that they play good music and behave themselves on a reasonable level.

I am a 'fixed' musician. I play every week. One of the reasons Jacques hired an amateur kid in the first place. I should have known when he let me in tonight. I be he didn't have many guest musicians coming in tonight. I bet he was desperate. My face did not change the slightest, but my mind was racing through a 10 km track in 2 seconds.

"I haven't practiced."

"I know."

"You don't want shitty music"
"'Course not."

"I haven't prepared new songs."

"And?"

"My voice is gone."

"Lies. I can hear it still there."

".....please?"

"Nope."

"After all that's happened Jacques?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because, I am your boss. You still have some time. Good luck."

All this time my voice was turning for the worse. I was pale, getting paler, I was almost about to turn sickly blue. But that did not happen. My emotion did not emerge so well to the surface. Not anymore. Once a fruit full of juice, now it has just....dried up. Concentrated sugar and residues of water left here and there, in a wrinkly sack that once was a beautiful, enticing fruit.

I'd like to believe that it is just as sweet as it is then.

But nobody can tell. Not anymore. Pushing the dread aside, I sat down on the small stool prepared for the grand piano. The red velvet cover is draped over its cruel, curvy body. Its black body seems to be waiting, to drag me back into the darkness that once I had mistaken for light.

The life is not kind to me tonight.

To live, to earn that extra dollars to pay the rent and buy myself another canned soup, I'm going to have to play this tonight. Perhaps I could quit this job and find some job elsewhere. Maybe a clerk? I could work as a part time bartender. Or even a teacher for kids.

But that means I disconnect myself from this place. I hate that even more. Why does it have to be me? I did not prepare anything. This is going to be a disaster....and then I'll probably get fired. Never to return here again.

No.

That can't happen.

The velvet slithered over the piano then finally flew up, covering my sight with deep blood red then revealing the work of art inside. It's black, except for the gold letters that etched in "Steinway" across it's front, and the pedals are brass color, giving off the dull shiny light under the glaring lights for the stage.

Mike is lowered in front of me, then a smattering of applause, and then I will start the evening.

This is when The Hourglass starts to flow.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, young and ancient, new and old.

For those of you who didn't know, this is The Hourglass;

For those who wants the time to stop, then hopefully tonight feels longer

For those who wants the time to flow faster, then hopefully tonight feels faster

For the latter I hope it's not because of the fact that you are here.(A slight spread of laughter)

For those of you who wants to know my name may have to buy me a drink(A louder laughter)

No I'm kidding about that.

You may call me as Ikarus. Let's start with an old favorite tonight. Anybody who guesses the song,

You'll get a drink. On me! So try hard ladies and gents."

It's hard to see the audience unless they are sitting right at the front row. The light is blinding, especially when you are getting the spotlight. The Hourglass is not big, like some sort of music hall, but it does still have some basic lightings.

One person did stand out though.

Her face struck me like thunder.

I was all of a sudden all too well aware of myself.

What if I make a mistake? Will she get disappointed?

Will she not come here again and tell her friends never to come here?

If I do this one good, then she will become a regular at here I hope.

Time flies fast when you reenter the mainstream society. Things are going fast as usual. Once you set foot in that rapid, your whole body is swept away by the violent undercurrent. In contrast to my lazy lifestyle before, now I am busying myself. As an assistant bartender, your jobs are numerous; you clear away the chair and stack some in the corner. You'll set the tables back in proper places and places reserved for couples will have a candle on them soon. Jacques is onto rimming the glasses. Like all professional bartenders, he does this with utmost precision yet with speed. He manages to crust the edges with whatever thin and even. Normally it's my job to do those. Tonight highballs will be my job, most likely. They are the easiest to make. And straights, but each liquor calls for different care, like different ladies with different preferences. Missing to satisfy those preferences will likely end up in a disaster; customers are very sensitive about their drinks.

By the time I had cleared the store for business, rimmed the glass with Jacques and finally set up the stage for tonight's visitor, it was dusk. I still haven't bothered checking my phone yet. Jacques watch said it's 5:24.

I haven't had lunch yet. In fact, I haven't eaten anything yet. Going back to rimming the glasses and freezing them, Jacques was now rummaging through the storeroom to find the open bottle of scotch and bring out a couple of bottles of Belvedere. He opened the scotch bottle and took a long swig. When the bottle rim finally came off his lip, the bottle was almost empty. Not that there was much to begin with, but Jacques' drinking habits often surprise me. He closed the cap. then chucked it to me.

"Finish it. I think you need it more than me"

"Thanks. 17s? Leftover from last night?"

"A customer left it behind. Present for us I guess."

"Well, if he can afford a 17 and leave it behind, then he must be rich."

"Well. Does it matter?"

To be honest, this is not some high class bar that attracts the socialites. Rather, we aim to be a little bit more inconspicuous. The Hourglass wants to be a getaway from the society.

Where time flows down like sand in the hourglass slowly, where it tickles down bit by bit, until the sand has all come down.

Where time then finally stops. Where we don't need to worry about deadlines, loan installments, jobs...whatever that nags us at the back of our heads constantly.

Where we break the strong undercurrent that catches us unaware and send us to our time's end. We wanted to do that. Jacques only knew too well that before you knew it during high school you will be applying for university. Before you knew what University is you already had a job, trying to survive in ever difficult situations. If time started jogging in your teenage years, your time starts running in your 20s, then by 30s, your time starts flying. After that, your heydays are over. You will be then a middle-aged man, or a woman, desperately trying to support a family or feeling desolate in your loneliness. Very generalized, I realize that.

I'm just a 19 year old boy. To comprehend what Jacques went through, I would have to experience all that. I still need some time to understand it. But, I still agree that we should all take a break from the society sometimes.

That's why I came to know this place to begin with, anyway.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Did you ever had the feeling that you want to just freeze the time?

Either in eternal happiness that you feel as if you will never experience, or in heart shattering pain that will progressively eat away at you as time goes by, like cancer in terminal stages. You feel as if you want to just hit the pause button. Most people choose the first option. Perhaps it's their shining moment in life. Maybe they proposed and their love just said yes. Maybe they just won a Nobel Price for something, anything.

People say that pain grows as time passes, but then it also goes after a certain period of time.

What if you don't want it to go away? What if you want to wallow in your sadness, because that's the best you have in your life? What if, after all the happiness experienced and pain, the memories are too strong, so that you don't want to lose your connection with the past long gone by?

What if you want to hit the pause button because you want to stay in the past?

With a shaking hand I accepted a smoke from Jacques.

I needed this.

After running back inside several times to grab things I needed to deal with society, I was finally able to walk out the front door of my flat. First thing I noticed was the air. Fresh and cold to the extent that the air runs down my throat with savage fury, it feels as if it is shredding my lung to bits. After getting used to the lukewarm, musky air of my flat, it is indeed fresh, different taste, with traces of society in it.

Definitely tastier, and more painful, than my dusty flat.

Walking down the staircase. The familiar creaks of the wooden boards and badly polished wood splintering under my weight greets me. Once I hated all this. The detestable condition, cracked walls, dirt and mould everywhere...

but now they are just familiar like old creaky chair is after years of use to its owner.

Walking past an old, dirty mirror on the way out of the building, I looked at myself. A shabby man with hunched shoulders and neck leaning forward, I don't look like 19.

With a messy beard covering my face, with tear streaks down my face, with dirty bits of cigarette and food and wine stains over my cloths, I could be 30 and without a job and people would believe me.

From the fresh high school graduate sonny boy that I was,

I've come a long way.

* * * * * * * * * *

Down the 25th street, walk from my flat about two blocks, and then turn to 26th street, then walk another block and a half. You'll find my workplace there. Don't be surprised when you see what it is though. It's not like you didn't expect it. After all, I'm only a high school graduate right?

The place I work at is an oxymoron. Old and new mingle. It's ugly, it's old, it's shabby yet it gives off a rich taste and atmosphere like a middle aged man. What's the word? It's mellow. It's a place I've come to love. It's a place I've come to loathe. Even my feelings of this place is juxtaposition. The variety of music being played here is also a mix of contemporary and classic, mainly jazz, but also others. What we deal with here is also a mixture of new and old. Or should I say young and old?

For those who still hasn't guessed where I work at. Let me enlighten you;

I work at a bar. I'm the assistant bartender, a performer, an entertainer. I am now making my way to "The Hourglass". My watch stopped working a while back. I have not bothered to check my handphone. Time does sort of stop, when you are alone, isolated from the world. A huge stream called society seems to just break part against my isolation and flow by, like a giant body of water parts when there is a rock. What it creates is a rapid - the time around you runs faster than you expect. I don't know how many days it has been, nor the time of the day. It must be sometime just past noon.

Time to take a deep breath. I could have been fired. I'll put up with that. Although that will make a very desperate situation out of me. I pushed the back door as quietly as I can. No need. The door groaned loudly as I gave it a gentle push. Boss will know that I am here now. I am the earliest here all the time. Nobody comes before me. Except my boss, who lives in the flat above. The lights are on. I can hear footsteps, chair protesting against being dragged ungracefully across the floor, and soft mumbles of conversation flowing out.

As are all bars, it is dark in here. It is slightly underground, with just necessary windows for air circulation. chairs, tables are strewn all over the floor. Messy, as usual. Another successful night of full house, I bet. I must have been standing in the doorway for quite some time, as memory overwhelm me. I walked straight into a stationary object. I look up. I see my boss staring down at me with a bemused smile.

"Er.....hey." I managed to choke out.

He still stares with that bemused smile. He just turns and walks away. Did I just catch that sad expression on his face? Just an imagination, most likely.

"The whole place needs some cleaning up. I haven't gotten to freezing cups. Oh, and we got a new set of glasses. Some are flutes, some are shots, some are highballs. Treat them, and freeze some with our usual. You know what to do. Fruits will be arriving at 4. Pierre is arriving at 6." He softly spat out a string of orders and went back to wiping cups. I called out to him.

"Hey Jacques"

"Yea?"

"I'm sorry." There. I said it. Maybe he was holding it all in. I'm his employee after all. How can he not be?

"I expect you to work harder from now on. Your customers missed you."

"So I'm still in?"

"If not, I won't ask you to work here."

So matter-of-fact. At least that saved me by a mile.

It is nothing but a drowsy afternoon. Sun is shining in lazily through a half-shaded window. The curtain's been drawn back for light. Dust particles in the air clearly visible. The air is so thick with dust that to breathe in, you are drinking in a drought of dust.

I haven't opened the window in a while. The sun stings once you open the window.

You'll need the shaded window to stand the sun in this country.

That is not the only thing that stings. The temperature outside is cold. It's 10 degrees celsius.

To open the window now is to be stung by sun and the chilly wind which blows all afternoon.

Laying siege to my house relentless through the night, through the day.

There's a trail of smoke lazily climbing up my wall. It drifts up like a cobra lured by a flute, then dissipates as it nears the ceiling, sucked out by a fan which has lost its ability to purify air, with dust clinging to the fan and the filter like wet wool. I haven't been out in a while. I am running low on groceries. I finished my last can of soup and the last bottle of soju last night.

I should really get up. If anything, I should start heading out. I have forgotten how many hours I've spent on my couch. I sleep, read, watch TV, eat and god knows what else on this second hand, worn piece of synthetic leather and dirty fillings.

I had to sell the bed a couple of weeks back. I couldn't stand it anymore.

All of a sudden my left index finger starts to burn as if a hot iron has been pressed to it. My cigarette has already burned itself down to the filter. I throw it onto the ashtray which lost is function a while back. It's full. I need to empty it, but I don't know where.

I reached to cigarette case on the table. It clicks open, revealing its empty innards.

"Damn it."

I should really start heading out. Staying in this place won't do me any good. I'll only rot here.

My bones crack as I get off the couch. I lost track of time. What time is it? What day is it? How long have I spent locked up here?

As I was walking out, I knocked over the ashtray. It's quite an expensive work, made of crystal. ash and butts fly all over the place. paste made from ash and spit and whatever is splattered across the floor.

I'll clean that up when I come back.

Last good night, Last good bye.

This is my last good night, last good bye.

We all knew we built a castle out of sand.

It was foolish for me to continue, fooling myself

this is a castle out of rock, a castle that is impenetrable, unbreakable.

Stupid illusion that set like engraving into flesh,

Etched into my brain, into my bones.

When an illusion breaks comes the disenchantment of the world around you

Everything looked happy didn't it back then?

Our laughter, our eyes, smallest caress to kisses we shared when we thought no one was looking.

Back then we could smile even in the gravest of situations.

Did you ever realize,

all we did was to cover the problems, cracks showing reality with more paints of illusion?

When darkness shone through the cracks,

We should have accepted it, embraced it, held it.

Use it like Theseus used his ball of wool to get in and out of labrynth

Lead us to the reality that we refused to recognize

We thought we could endlessly paint beautiful drawing where

no contrasts exists

no photo negatives

no darkness

no worries

endlessly repaint and repaint until nothing but our world existed.

All canvas has to be changed after a certain amount of painting has been applied.

You can't redraw things on it forever.

By repainting we have done nothing but ruin our first dream.

Now darkness shines.

Ever larger, ever brighter, ever stronger, ever tauntingly.

Forget our dreams. They held us back long enough.

It's time to set sail again in the styx.

We need to find our way back.

Now darkness shines, ever glorious.

This is my last good night, last good bye.

We all knew we built a castle out of sand.

I need to move away from you.

It's time to set sail again in the styx.

Yet I'd gladly fall asleep in your arms.

This is my last good night, last good bye.

Close your eyes...

Sleep till the dawn...

When you awake I probably won't be here.

It's time to set sail again in the styx,

This is my last good night, last good bye.