It was a long wooden boat to Heuksando, the black mountain island. Cliffs before and behind. It was dark, but there were lights. Paper lanterns drifted on the inlets. Underneath the charcoal currents skeletons shuddered and stretched apart their stale fingers: they whispered your name. In the sea village I gingerly tasted the fermented skate ray in tiny bites, sipped makgeolli straight from the ceramic ladle. Somewhere a man plucked at his kayagum and the sound of it: shy but true. Nearly soundless. I prefer to travel alone anyway. Even in the heart of the city the voices were still, a steady blaze of clean blue fire. The towers had no bells; the soft ingress wafted mute swans. In the watery abyss I felt my heart contort & crack into several pieces, floated away. The sky is either blank or it has too many colors. Of course, by that point, there was nothing left for anyone to say. Even the dragonflies were speechless: a silent meteor shower of silver wings skimming the opal water. In my journal, it was written in wet ink, Au silence de celle qui faire jaillir des êtincelles There is a silence that makes sparks fly, but all I remember was feeling empty and wingless. Ready to be someone else.