I spent nearly an hour picking up the bloodstained glass shards. and more than three hours to dispose of a corpse in the bathroom of a cheap rental house.

That day was exceptionally hot. Even summer worshipers like high school students who dream of throwing away their books Still wanting winter and another pile of homework to pile up next to them for a while longer. I think so too. A voice in my head tells me that the happy school days have long passed.

Passing on a path where degrees and determination once resided in a place other than the bathroom of a cheap flat. Symptoms are no longer cold. There are no intellectual women thinking about what I'm doing. I clumsily wiped away the beads of sweat with the back of my hand as I recalled the past.

Moving through the lifeless body that lay motionless. Hearing the haunted old song, he wiped the red liquid on his face. I don't need a textbook, a sermon, or the sight of an angry professor who thinks his personal life is more important than a young woman's pain. I need a cool breeze.

A black bag that can hold all the parts. Something that removes the fishy smell. And a gulp of clean water before I fell unconscious on the bloodstained bathroom floor.

I've hated the crappy tiles in this filthy bathroom since the first time he mentioned it all those years ago. My clothes were riddled with desire and smelled of expensive alcohol. Before sweet dreams turn into painful reality I remember his smile I used to love it

and agree to do anything to possess that person's sweet, innocent sweetness I did it many times. It has undergone political changes from the time when democracy was not fully developed until the day when democracy was decorated with rough cut-and-paste rags. Like any thoughtless girl, I fooled myself that one day he would look at me with eyes that saw more of me than my flesh.

I would rather the ruler of the world and his nature have any idea of ​​who I am. The self that continually refused to allow him to take over my body. I agree to give you sweet words. And a few sentences on his cell phone tempted me to see him as an indispensable breath. Believing that the songs he played would lead me away from meaningless, trashy lyrics.

I hope the haunted song fades away. I lay back on the cracked tile floor, the cursed stench. He had inhaled the scent of his body countless times since the time he called for him after finishing his business. Use both fingers to smooth over the sticky surface of the tile. Filled with the scent of yesterday The smell of food in his stomach from when he still had the opportunity to hang out every weekend.

The smell of spicy food from every Friday when we take turns washing dishes in the cramped bathroom stings. I remember the scent of his perfume on my harsh hair. Like a summer rose kissing your lips and making beautiful promises. Don't worry, I'll take care of you.

For me Love is directly related to the basic philosophy that this country views. Art is slang when it brings more soul than profit to the capitalist's pocket and I have always believed that. Even when he's gone That my hateful belief came about because he kept telling me that she was my number two.

Those insulting words reduced his image from that of a gentleman to a hollow-headed man who thought his own life was the center of everything. But I am more hollow. All immortal humans are artists. And every artist living in this chaotic world always sells something for money.

Part of me is therefore a foolish artist who is undeniably dependent on the capitalists. He bought me all of my glorious humanity. It was as if my love was being auctioned off in a marketplace between the insane and the opportunistic. I would probably be labeled a bitch by artists who sold their souls to a regime that destroyed society.

Accused of being just a shameless person who takes pleasure every time he runs away from his dull true love for me. But what type of relationship has not been tainted by evil? Even mundane things create a scent that is as charming as pure desire. If the whole world was created with flawless goodness

So why is my face in the mirror cracked as if the truth is thinner than broken glass?

I picked up the large piece of glass next to me and lay there staring at myself again. The only response was a comment made at the professor's retirement party a few days ago. Please, consider helping me. He gave me the role of a conductor on a stage to shine. That lifeless director said that every time his friends questioned me at a big party,

Answer that we are both working on a project to bid farewell to an old professor who is retiring. Suggest that I make up beautiful words to hide secret matters. keep ours Partly because he wanted to fill his broken heart with a woman like me who couldn't resist. That night his inept performance was talked about ingeniously.

The details of the false life are told with honesty. It was as if every conversation that took place between him and the stranger had been meticulously composed and flawless. I took the camera Establish that what I'm doing is more important than hiding my filth in a corner. I looked at the contents of the champagne glasses and the reflection of the many porcelain on the elegant table.

Notice the disgust beneath the overwhelming makeup. Both their eyes were angry. And his face contorted every time he burst into laughter when his fellow professors cracked a brainless joke. The me in the mirror is looking down on me. The voice was harsh and completely alien to me. Singing in harmony with the song that was playing in my head, my face faded.

The demon in my memory surfaced. A shout of warning Have you forgotten that look?

Clock notification at noon I slowly put down the large piece of glass. His eyes stared at the remnants of the past that needed to be removed. I sighed in exhaustion. Black bags may hold fingers or small fragments, but if you want to get rid of them all, I had to use sheets and several rolls of colored Scotch tape.

I've been searching for bedsheets for a long time. Part of it was probably because he had never once arranged his things in order. Even after I always reminded him to listen. But the order in his mind had a completely different meaning to me. Frustrated, I pulled a sheet from a crevice in the wooden cabinet.

Everything was piled up on top of one another like a pile of rancid garbage. I threw a pile of photos from the previous day's event out of the way. With a willful hatred He never forgot to remind me that people who collect old memories are enlightened people. Claims that there was a time when she was feeling lost in life. Seeing those photos again was like going back to visit a favorite relative that she wanted to hold dear in her heart.

I had to bear witness to his perversion for too long. He is an unconventional type who hates mediocrity. He opposes the salaried workers who stick their tongues out waiting for ready-made bowls of green food. He holds that human life truly begins at sunset. He curses the morality and falsehood of television.

It was as if the only thing he was holding on to was immersing himself in a world of nighttime lights. and society on the digital screen where he can choose to wear any form of reality mask. My face tightened with disgust. I think back to the time we were together on the same sheet. Among the jazz songs of the 60's

which is played to witness the pathetic fall of an ignorant man. I clutched the sheets in my hands until veins bulged. My breath was tight, just like when he slapped me in the face with the back of his left hand hours ago. A haunting song drowns out Dave Brubeck's voice. His face clears again as I hurl a punch into a wooden cabinet, shattering the bones of my hand. The past comes back again

The haunting songs he liked to play in class pierced my ears. A song in which one of the verses states: “Smile, I smile more than ever. The happiness that I have been searching for so long is here. Just understand. Don't hold on to it. Hold it and hug it. It's just an umbrella, that's all.” Tears flowed from my eyes. The whole world began to fall apart from that day. Tears cut deep

But ridiculously gentle It was as if the gentle fingers of your true love had stretched out and touched the little tear glands. Then he whispered magical words through his wounded ear: It's okay, I forgive you. Everything is returning to normal. Cycling back to a time when the corpse in the bathroom was still alive and controlled my fate. At that time, his eyes were still gentle and fake, like an adult caring for a little child.

I quickly grabbed the scotch tape under the drawer. He quickly walked back to the corpse waiting in the bathroom while dragging a large cloth with him. No joke, I said. You're going to sleep with my memories forever.