Kyungsoo awakens to incessant rings of an alarm clock. The clanging of metal on metal is irritating to the ears, and it’s especially piercing so early on.

He swings his arm for the clock, hitting the snooze button with abundant practice, but knocking it off his bedside drawer in the process, causing it to start its repetitive noises once again.

 A string of profanities sliding off his tongue, he finally slides out of his blanket to pick up the discarded machinery and removes its batteries, halting the noise suddenly.

He drops them — quite violently — onto a wooden surface while placing the empty clock down nearby, he’d deal with it later.

Though his apartment was beautiful, mornings for Kyungsoo are quite dull.

It is autumn right now and the days are getting shorter, the sunrises usually accompanied by a of cold air that his skin when he rolls out of his sheets, the same every single day , the same process that starts another round of a systematic  error; his life.

The male makes his way to his kitchen and heads for a half-full bag of rice, scooping the grain into a plastic cup, filling three-quarters of it and pouring the contents into a small pot that he’d prepared the night before.

Kyungsoo holds the black handle under a tap of running water and watches the rice float as the water hits the bottom, measuring with his eyes before halting the flow and leaving it onto the stove to cook on a medium heat.

He slices a few stalks of spring-onion and crushes a small fistful of scallops that his mother imported from Busan on her trip, dropping it into the concoction of rice and water, stirring it as it begins to steam.

He leaves the porridge and starts to work on a more flavoursome dish and retrieves a pickled radish he put in the fridge last night.

The white vegetable has been dyed a remarkable red by the Korean peppers, a few beans mashed finely into the homemade sauce. Kyungsoo delicately moves a few slices into a small saucer with skillful hands and a pair of wooden chopsticks, setting it on the table, bringing out a tablespoon before stirring his mixture again, adding a pinch of salt.

It was kind of ironic, Kyungsoo – who was never pleased with much – felt quite content at this very moment as he was scooping a ladle of porridge into a ceramic bowl.

The taste of the rice porridge is heightened to its best with the extra dose of flavor that sprinkles the surface, Kyungsoo favours it.

He eats his meal in silence, occasionally blowing on the spoon of sludge softly so that it cools down for him to eat.

Kyungsoo regards himself as quite good at cooking, especially Asian cuisine. He can work with all types of ingredients and make something of it in the end, most of the time unheard of, but edible.

He finishes two bowls of the porridge, taking sips and picking up slices of radish with his chopsticks to knock some spice into the otherwise plain meal.

He’s sitting on one of those plastic chairs that you can go up and down on, the type that whirls around. It makes a strange sound as he stands up and puts his dishes in the sink.

The morning after that is quite smooth, he washes up, changes into casual wear, brushes his teeth and leaves his room to descend the elevators and head to the subway nearby, where he catches the 8:30am ride to work.