Chapter 11

I scurried out my building door in the morning cold towards the train station. In the dawn light, I had discovered that my emotionally-detached bathroom light bulb had died overnight. Having waited for more sunlight to shave, I was now running late.

But I was wrapped in the warmth of my big, wool coat. I had retrieved it from the dry cleaner the week prior. The Korean lady had smiled, jovial and squinty-eyed, emerging from a forest of hanging garments. "An yung ha se yo," we had greeted each other.

Then, pointing at the beard on my face, "Oh! You new look!" she had said. Then she noticed the splint and her face flipped into a frown. I explained that a bad man had hit me and I fell down. But I was OK, I lied. "Kamsam ni da," we had thanked each other as I left: the civilized convention of "Thank you" restored order in our universes.

Once home, I took the coat out of the plastic covering and stroked the lapels - all the blood had been cleaned away. For a moment I was thrilled by the sensation that life could return to normal, to what I knew to be normal. But we can never go back, the sadness said from a corner. This was true, I knew. Even my recent time travel attempt had been a total failure.

And so I studied the cracks in the sidewalk until I reached the train station, secure in the knowledge that work was waiting for me with open arms. Work: the way the modern world suspends consciousness.