Namhae Spinach and Tomato Salad

20220208 #breakfastdiary 347, -7°C/cloudy at times, 26min/exercise Namhae County spinach, #Namhaecho, with cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and a vinaigrette dressing. #spinachtomatosalad A man hands over a boiled egg. According to the weather forecast, around one o'clock the train will run into sleet near Daejeon. Because the heating system is a mess, a few masked passengers cough out coughs like damp cigarette filters, and into consciousness too damp to fall easily asleep, the dim cabin lights keep flickering off for moments. Do you understand the feeling of leaving Seoul for good? You must be heading back to your hometown. This time, really, I'm retiring to the countryside for good. As if he'd hurt his fingertip peeling the eggshell, the man falls silent for a moment. I finished high school in Jochiwon. As for life in Seoul — it was like a stress mark stamped on some trivial sentence in my life. Isn't Jochiwon a fairly big town itself? Seoul was never my nest. Of course, people from the provinces are all the more violent there. Outside the dark train window, like fish bones floating in air, winter trees stand startled and stark white. For the branches of memory that once let birds fly free, how many more seasons must they hold up their arms, struggling? Even at the small tremor of the train slowing for a local stop, people jolt awake. Their suspicious eyes, laid bare like belongings on display, close again, and men toss and turn like dialects, chasing after some more comfortable life. At their feet, wretched dreams used to roll about like a few bread wrappers. But Seoul is a good place. Because it teaches people anger. Thanks to it, I've done everything except stealing. All the way to Jochiwon the man says nothing. What is waiting for him there? I shake my head, wondering how many times now has been his last homecoming. My drowsiness, like a bad match, goes out again quickly. Even if I happened to run into the man on some Seoul street a few days later, so what. Everyone keeps at least one coat on hand, for winter. The man rises, small bag in hand. With the look of a firm zipper his mouth opens just once to show a row of even teeth. Walking toward the platform, the man collides with some young men walking the other way. The way people look when straining to hide some resolve, the young men look as lonely as sawdust. The man passes beneath a neon sign that reads Jochiwon. And at that moment I see a large black bird. Surely the man is flying slowly over the ground. The time is midnight. Snow is falling.