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Summary
Nam-gyu pours himself a cup of coffee. He pours the same brand of vanilla creamer. He stirs it the same way he always does. He takes a drink, and swallows the liquid as if it’s a sour tasting medicine. His own breathing sounds as if it’s coming from a place outside of his body, separate from himself, shallow and unnatural. It’d concern him if he wasn’t so used to it.
Endless repetition is the only thing left for him. The coffee cup clangs against the counter louder than usual, and the sound makes him jump so harshly that one would assume he’s heard a gun fire directly against his temple.
— — —
(Nonsensicality and repetition bleed into one.)