a little shrapnel of the atmosphere gets swallowed up when you blink. however, a certain love will always stay around these parts. a fussy broken wisp of an air of love. stored in a kimchee pot, or folded — compressed between winter quilts.
it will remain a warm, sweet love, even inside the vermillion room: even when a little indelible whisper lands and says to you, hello, you know I know the raft has holes.