Tuesday morning

I dreamed of helping men push dead trucks, one black, one white, carrying marijuana up impossible hills. One portly fellow fainted and stole a kiss when I went to help. We then searched for a hotel in this tropical paradise but only found an underground bunker with a particle board trap door. I awoke to remember I slept laid out flat on the heated pipes of the ondol floor, craving heat, craving the tropics to warm me, outside to in, but my little bubble of reality burst. I awoke to remember it was Tuesday in cold gray Seoul where there never is a day now that one needs sunglasses, and I have a meeting to attend to. Frivolous things to write down and pretend are important. More important than stolen kisses and the heat of the sun.