In my neighbourhood there is a convenience store named “Chilsung Supermarket”. To be more precise, this store is located by the apartment block directly adjacent to mine. To be more precise still, it is located just beyond that point, right where the apartments suddenly give way to a series of houses. I noticed Chilsung Supermarket when I first came to this neighbourhood, when I began wandering through the area at night. I walked by the store. What’s this?—what an excessively name-like name. “Chilsung Supermarket”, a name in which some difficult-to-know emotion was emergent, or in which some already existing emotion resided.

I don’t know why I go for walks on hot summer days, why do I do it?, I thought in the midst of doing it. I would head out aimlessly, especially at night, the heat preventing me from walking quickly, sweat dripping with my every step. When I head out, there are several possible routes. Because my house is on an incline I can head upwards or downwards. If I head downwards I will then have to choose between a left and a right turn, the former of which will lead me back up the hill. The road to the right, which is flat and non-descending, leads to the city centre. The non-descending road uphill from my house is extremely steep, requiring an arduous ascent before a commensurate downslope comes into view. If then, instead of fully descending this slope, I go roughly halfway down and turn left, I will reach the aforementioned Chilsung Supermarket.

In front of Chilsung Supermarket are a round, red plastic table and some stacked plastic chairs. The store is small and dutifully maintained, each of its shelves arrayed with similarly packaged snacks set always in the same positions. On occasion I have seen a couple of people sitting outside, but for the most part the chairs are empty. Invariably, I would pass by the storefront without much thought. Just an Ah, it’s Chilsung Supermarket. But one day I went inside. How long are you open for, I asked, I might drop by again after walking a couple of laps. The owner, who had been leaning against the wall, stood up straight without answering my question, then sluggishly spoke. Will you take some drink?

The lateness of the hour, the white fluorescent lamp, the musty smell emanating from who knew where, the emptiness of the place, the monotone question posed in lieu of an answer—all seemingly combined to shock me into stepping backwards as though I were being expelled from the store. I was gone without a word. Walking without thought. I went up and down the inclines once more.

I had always walked. I walked when nothing was happening. I walked when something had happened, not knowing what that something was. The walking would make the something less knowable still. When I despised and could not endure this unknown thing, I walked without aim. There were always unendurable things. Unendurable objects, situations, or expressions would pursue me tenaciously. I walked whenever I was pursued by another’s language. Language was the exemplary unknowable. When words were spoken, the world would break. I walked inside the broken world. I walked until language stopped pursuing me. It took time. Time always had to elapse. Though time seemed like nothing, it always prevailed eventually. And thus, all that remains is this—“I walked a long way”.

As I got older, I gradually started walking more during the night than the day. At night, unlike during the day, the senses were apt to become dulled during the walk. I could not tell how much walking had been done, nor even who the walker was. I was uncertain whether I was walking or whether something distinct from me was impelling me forward. What is this walking thing, this walking mass.

This night
this night
all things are wearing the night together.
Each thing pays no heed to what the others are.
There is just the night.
Things near, things remote
they are of the night and in the night.
People in buildings, people outside
the night.

I am a person walking at night who sees people walking at night and becomes confused with people walking at night. It seems as though the night will not yet end. It seems too that the trees and the large rubbish bags piled up in front of them will not end. And yet, these things also seem like they will end in an instant. It is likely that in the next alley, such things will already be gone.

Where are you?
Outside
Are you on your way home?
Not yet
What are you doing?
I’m about to cross a road—I just crossed a small road and now I’m waiting to
      cross a four-lane road
Did something happen today?
No, nothing
Do you want to come over?
No, I’m okay.

I have crossed two roads and am a long way from Chilsung Supermarket. The ambience here feels considerably different to that of my neighbourhood. Small commercial buildings are lined up next to each other. I can see gatherings of people beyond the gleaming, transparent windowpanes. Though their numbers are curtailed due to the coronavirus, the groups of twos and threes are boisterously making merry as they drink. Glasses raised in hands, gestures of emphatic speech, heads nodding—of course; people drink when the late evening draws in. Before going home, people stop at a bar and head in for a drink. In front of the alcohol, with nothing else for it, they allow the beer bubbles to dilute the day’s secrets, pouring and drinking and rounding things off. Dispensing with things. Laughing, revelling, clinking glasses, the table wet, a red jacket fallen beneath a chair, people with identities unknown dispensing with the unidentifiable day.

I stopped outside for a while, captivated as I took the scene in. I observed the people’s skill, how they dispensed with the day via a cordial, serene adroitness that seemed like some otherworldly technology. I thought suddenly of the plastic table in front of Chilsung Supermarket. And of those words. Will you take some drink?

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Lee Sumyeong is South Korean poet and critic. Just Like, her first book to be translated into English, was published by Black Ocean in spring 2024.

Colin Leemarshall runs the print-on-demand press Erotoplasty Editions, which sells innovative and idiosyncratic books of poetry at cost price.