Writing granted a purpose, a connection beyond breeding to defy death for he who would never breed, he who would never be enslaved for ephemeral "family" and provide for children who were only a woman's pleasure—he who for not breeding had life and breath relegated to blowing dirt.
The word, "friendship" sat down beside him when the futile meeting was disbanded and all words were sent home; and as it sat there, it transformed itself into human form.
"Are you familiar with Camille Saint-Saens — his Macabre Dance?" said the word. It was Kim Yang Kwam, the friend who had labeled him as dirty and had abandoned him for that one touch, that one weak moment of wanting to celebrate the beauty of the friendship and the beauty of the man to its fruition. The two were in the bedroom of that apartment in Umsong as they had been before, and Yang Kwam was pulling out a CD from its plastic holder.
"Yes, lovely. I don't have any from that composer. Let's hear it. He is one of my favorites, you know. Well, you don't know. That is why it is so special. What are the chances of you liking it, liking the cello above other instruments, favoring your philosophic ponderings above everything, and now telling me that you are okay with me being gay."
"I'm here for you, Shawn."
"I'm living with someone now — maybe not long. He vitiates his mind with a Braille version of comics. They have Braille comics, you know. I mean, that is his business but he is so reticent to talk with anyone and I can't reach him much of the time. He is blind and seems content to cower himself in a corner someplace, pleased to have made it through another day — well, not always. I met him in a concert hall. I thought he liked classical music. I guess he does but not as much. He turns on too much pop music. I don't like it. It gives me headaches."
"It isn't important."
"Strange that I should be here without him."
"We are where we want to be in all things."
"There was another thing I was scared to tell you. I'm not sure how — listen, I killed my sister, my father hung himself, and I was struck down into such a depression like being slapped into a tsunami. Ever since this I've been drifting into the Pacific like a corpse."