Yongguk is a writer. He could have been anything, as talented as he was: a computer scientist, a doctor, lawyer. But he chose to be a writer. He knew that pursuing a future as a novelist called for instability, a low salary, and a high chance of failure, and the fact that he hasn't been able to publish a single book in the six years of his career doesn't help.

Now at age twenty-five, he lives alone in a run down apartment building that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, working part time as a bartender at the local bar and posting up sorry poems and short stories onto his blog every week or so.

Yongguk is a writer. He writes... about the pouring rain outside our radiant smiles, about the toxins we exhale into this broken world, about the light that doesn't exist in our shadows, about everything, about life.

He writes.

And the stupid high school girl that lives next door to him tells him to stop writing.

"Maybe if you listened instead," she said, "Maybe if you lived a little."

And he writes it down.