the same river
When we write a letter, we experience a strange space. To the friends and spouses we use the most informal language with, we suddenly become very formal. I wonder if the poem’s speaker also lives in such a space, a space that is of our daily lives and yet is separate or different from it at the same time. A space where age, gender, or the binary of life and death have either untouched or retreated from—a space only the speaker can enter.
—Lee Seong-bok (Indeterminate Inflorescence, trans. Anton Hur, p. 103f.)